EDITH  SESSIONS  TUPPER 


6  -3 


UNIV.  OF  CAtlF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 


UNIV.  or  caur, 


"Beatrice  snatched  his  crop  from  the  piano  and  struck  him 
full  in  the  face.  'Coward!'  she  panted,  'I  could  kill  you!'  ' 

Page  42 


The 

Stuff  of  Dreams 


BY 

EDITH   SESSIONS  TUPPER 


"We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  on" 

— The  Tempest 


NEW   YORK 

B.  W.  DODGE  &   COMPANY 

1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
B.  W.  DODGE  &  COMPANY 


Registered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 
(All  Bights  Reserved) 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

CHAPTER  I 

"Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty." 

As  LILY  turned  lightly  in  her  saddle  and 
sent  back  a  smile  of  gay  challenge,  Jerry  as- 
sured himself  that  he  was  very  much  in  love 
with  her.  She  was  so  piquant,  so  thorough- 
bred, above  all,  so  good-humored.  Jerry  had 
grown  very  tired  of  tears  and  reproaches.  Of 
late,  he  considered,  he  had  met  with  nothing 
else.  It  was  a  relief  to  be  with  this  frankly 
joyous  young  creature  who  carried  so  delicious 
an  air  of  naivete  and  who  yet  at  times  showed 
that  she  possessed  a  wisdom  and  judgment  be- 
fitting riper  years. 

His  eyes  surveyed  the  graceful  figure  in  its 
fit  habit,  the  golden  hair  curling  about  the  fair, 
high-bred  face,  the  rich  coloring  that  had 

1 

2133403 


THE  STUFF  OF   DREAMS 

sprung  to  her  cheeks  during  this  afternoon 
canter  in  the  park,  the  scarlet,  enticing  mouth 
and  laughing,  hazel  eyes.  Decidedly,  she  was 
desirable.  His  pulses  hammered  as  he  urged 
his  horse  forward  in  pursuit. 

The  affair  would  so  please  the  governor,  too, 
he  thought.  And  her  mother?  Yes — Mrs. 
Adriance  had  shown  a  decided  inclination  to 
his  attentions.  And  it  was  high  time  he  should 
quit  his  follies,  settle  down,  marry  a  nice  girl 
of  his  own  class  and  lead  a  life  in  that  station 
to  which  it  had  pleased  Providence  to  call  him. 

"I  will  speak  to  her  to-day,"  he  resolved,  as 
his  horse  caught  up  with  hers  and  the  two 
slowed  down  into  a  walk  under  the  low-sway- 
ing boughs  overhanging  the  bridle  path. 

It  was  an  April  day,  and  all  the  world  was 
bursting  into  bloom.  The  feathery  foliage  was 
of  a  tender  golden-green,  the  shrubs  were 
flinging  out  their  scarlet  and  white  banners, 
the  grass  was  of  softest  emerald.  Wherever 
one  looked  were  the  signals  of  the  approaching 
glorious  fulfillment  of  summer.  It  was  a  day 

2 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

to  quicken  the  pulses  and  set  the  blood  leaping, 
and,  above  all,  to  breed  desire  for  the  beautiful. 

"Shall  I  speak  now?"  Jerry  thought,  as  his 
bold  eyes  caressed  the  charming  face  so  near 
his.  "No,  I  will  wait  until  we  are  at  home — 
alone.  Here  I  should  be  forced  to  content  my- 
self with  a  pressure  of  the  hand;  there,  I  can 
take  her  in  my  arms " 

"Lily,"  he  suddenly  said,  "I  don't  want  to 
cut  short  our  delightful  ride,  but  it  is  growing 
late,  and  you  know  how  punctilious  dad  is 
about  the  dinner  hour." 

"Yes,  Jerry,  dear,"  replied  the  girl  care- 
lessly, "we  must  go  back.  Mamma  will  be 
home  from  her  shopping,  too,  and  I  am  simply 
wild  to  see  all  the  beautiful  new  things  she  is 
going  to  give  me.  Come."  She  struck  her 
horse  lightly  and  it  galloped  quickly  down  the 
path,  Jerry's  following  close.  Presently  they 
found  themselves  at  one  of  the  Fifth  Avenue 
entrances  and,  emerging  upon  that  thorough- 
fare, were  soon  lost  in  the  never-ending 
pageant  of  the  street. 

3 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Lily  Adriance,  the  daughter  of  the  late  Tom 
Adriance,  of  Denver,  one  of  those  fabulous 
mine-owners,  who  come  out  of  the  West  to 
startle  the  East  from  its  well-bred  languor, 
was  the  ward  of  George  Sunderland,  the  well- 
known  financier.  She  and  her  mother  were 
now  the  guests  of  her  guardian.  Ever  since 
Tom  Adriance  was  killed  by  the  breaking  of 
a  rotten  ladder  in  an  abandoned  shaft,  which, 
despite  all  warning,  he  persisted  in  exploring, 
his  widow  had  made  her  annual  trip  to  New 
York,  for  distraction,  replenishing  of  belong- 
ings, and  visits  to  old  friends.  She  always 
came  with  a  retinue,  not  only  of  servants,  but 
also  of  instructors,  for  her  daughter  was  never 
sent  to  boarding  school,  but  educated  by  pri- 
vate tuition.  Lily  was  now  about  seventeen, 
a  girl  of  rare  beauty,  unspoiled  by  her  luxu- 
rious surroundings,  ingenuous  to  a  degree,  as 
her  mother  had  been  her  only  companion. 
From  her  childhood  she  had  looked  upon  Ger- 
ald Sunderland,  the  son  of  her  guardian,  abso- 
lutely as  a  brother.  She  had  teased  and  quar- 

4 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

relied  with  him;  listened  to  his  tales  of  flirta- 
tion with  eager  interest ;  sympathized  and  loved 
him,  but  never  had  considered  him  in  the  light 
of  a  possible  aspirant  to  her  hand.  And  this 
afternoon,  when  looking  up  at  him,  she  had 
caught  a  strange  expression  in  his  audacious 
eyes,  she  had  paid  no  heed.  Once,  when  he 
had  sunk  his  voice  to  caressing  accents,  she  had 
smiled  knowingly  to  herself.  "Aha!"  she 
thought,  "so  Mr.  Jerry  is  practising  on  me — 
big,  blue-eyed  fraud!" 

As  she  crossed  the  hall  on  returning  from 
her  ride,  a  servant  approached  her  with  the  ha- 
bitual bearing  of  the  well-trained  flunkey.  He 
handed  her  a  box  bearing  the  stamp  of  a  fa- 
mous florist  and  elaborately  tied  with  violet 
satin  ribbon.  "For  you,  Miss  Adriance,"  he 
announced,  as  if  offering  her  the  keys  of  the 
city. 

Lily  took  the  box  and  entered  the  drawing- 
room.  Hastening  to  a  retired  corner,  she 
opened  it  and  lifted  out  a  huge  cluster  of  dewy 
Parma  violets.  The  color  mounted  to  her 

5 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

cheeks.  She  buried  her  blushing  face  in  their 
delicious  perfume,  tapping  them  against  her 
scarlet  lips  as  if  to  hide  her  happy  smiles,  and 
then,  quickly  drawing  a  pin  from  her  hat,  fas- 
tened them  securely  in  the  bodice  of  her  habit. 
Going  over  to  the  mantel  she  surveyed  herself 
in  the  mirror  with  the  pleasure  every  beautiful 
girl  displays  on  beholding  her  reflection.  Her 
hands  lingered  tenderly  on  the  flowers.  "Dear 
fellow,"  she  murmured  softly. 

A  sound  of  voices  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
drawing-room  made  her  turn  quickly  and 
catch  up  her  crop  and  the  box,  which  she  had 
left  upon  a  chair.  Jerry  and  another  man 
were  coming  toward  her. 

Jerry  Sunderland  had  the  features  of  an 
archangel  with  the  eyes  of  a  fallen  one.  As 
a  child,  his  blond  beauty  had  earned  him  the 
title  of  "The  Cherub,"  which  even  to-day  was 
sometimes  accorded  him  by  his  intimates;  by 
the  women  with  shrieks  of  false  mirth;  by  the 
men  with  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks.  There 
were  lines  in  his  handsome  face  which  told  their 

6 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

own  story,  and  the  beauty  of  his  features  was 
somewhat  marred  by  a  disdainful,  short  upper 
lip.  It  was  as  if  he  were  habitually  sneering 
at  life. 

His  companion  was  a  man  of  about  seven- 
and-twenty,  athletic,  clean-limbed,  well- 
groomed,  with  a  clear-cut  face  and  frank  eyes 
filled  with  decision  and  command.  Jack  Tyson 
was  three  or  four  years  older  than  Jerry,  but 
the  difference  in  age  had  not  militated  against 
their  friendship.  Tyson  was  a  thorough  man 
of  the  world,  and  while  strongly  disapproving 
of  Jerry's  escapades  had,  from  sheer  affection 
for  the  boy,  shielded  him  to  the  best  of  his  ca- 
pabilities from  their  results.  Jerry  wras  accus- 
tomed to  turn  to  Tyson  whenever  he  was  in  a 
scrape,  and  many  a  time  the  intervention  of  his 
friend  had  served  to  fend  off  grave  results. 
But  there  is  a  limit  to  all  forbearance,  and  Ty- 
son felt  that  he  was  fast  approaching  that 
boundary.  Pie  had  come  to  the  house  to  have 
a  serious  talk  with  Jerry,  and,  finding  he  was 

7 


riding  with  Miss  Adriance,  had  waited  in  his 
room  until  his  return. 

But  Jerry  was  in  no  mood  for  a  lecture,  and 
speedily  discerning  the  cloud  on  the  brow  of 
his  friend,  at  once  dragged  him  to  the  drawing- 
room,  hoping  to  intercept  Lily  there  and  thus 
ward  off  an  impending  homily.  His  ruse  had 
succeeded,  he  thought,  as  he  saw  the  girl  turn 
toward  them.  Thrusting  his  arm  through  Ty- 
son's, he  gaily  called:  "Here's  Jack,  Lily;  I 
found  him  waiting  in  the  smoking-room." 

Lily  greeted  Tyson  cordially,  but  with 
slightly  heightened  color,  and  the  violets  trem- 
bled a  little  on  her  breast. 

"Jack's  going  to  dine  with  us,"  Jerry  rattled 
on.  "Hello  1"  his  eyes  had  lighted  on  the  flow- 
ers, "where  did  you  get  the  violets?  Now,  do 
you  know,  it  was  very  stupid  of  me  to  forget 
violets  for  you  this  afternoon." 

"Oh,  never  mind,  Jerry,"  Lily  replied,  a 
trifle  embarrassed,  "it's  of  no  consequence 
whatever." 

"But,  I  say,"  persisted  Jerry,  "those  are 
8 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

beauties.  Come,  Lily,  confess,"  he  urged,  "you 
ordered  them  yourself,  to  pay  me  out  for  my 
negligence." 

Lily  recovered  herself.  "Do  you  fancy,  Jer- 
ry," she  cried  with  animation,  "that  you  are 
the  only  man  in  New  York  who  orders  violets? 

w 

Come,  sir,  your  assurance  is  tremendous." 

"I  say,  Jack,"  returned  Jerry,  "for  a  little 
girl  from  the  wild  and  woolly  West,  Lily  is 
doing  quite  well."  He  shook  his  crop  warn- 
ingly  at  her.  "But  I'll  have  you  remember, 
miss,  you  are  to  have  no  flirtations  sub  rosa. 
I  am  to  know  all  about  them." 

"One  would  fancy,"  said  Lily  banteringly, 
as  she  turned  to  leave  them,  "that  you,  instead 
of  your  father,  were  my  guardian." 

"You  are  not  going?"  Jerry  dropped  Ty- 
son's arm  and  went  a  step  or  two  toward  her. 
He  was  in  genuine  vexation,  for  he  realized 
his  peril  should  she  desert  him. 

"I  must  dress  for  dinner,"  she  responded. 
"You  know,  Jerry,  we  were  awfully  late."  As 
she  spoke  she  carelessly  let  fall  her  crop. 

9 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

At  her  reply  Jerry  had  turned  away,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  with  an  air  of  resignation 
to  the  inevitable.  Tyson  swiftly  passed  him, 
and  stooping,  picked  up  the  crop  and  restored 
it  to  Lily.  Their  eyes  met.  "Thank  you,"  he 
murmured,  "for  wearing  my  violets." 

With  an  adorable,  fleeting  smile,  Lily  van- 
ished through  the  curtained  doorway. 


10 


CHAPTER  II 

"And  hence  one  master  passion  in  the  breast, 
Like  Aaron's  serpent,  swallows  up  the  rest." 

As  LILY  disappeared,  Tyson  turned  slowly 
back  and  faced  Jerry,  who  regarded  him  with 
an  expression  at  once  petulant  and  mocking. 

"Jerry,"  Tyson  said  quietly,  "I  must  have 
a  serious  talk  with  you." 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,  Jack,"  retorted  Jerry.  "You 
know  my  deep-rooted  aversion  to  anything 
serious." 

"Yes,  I  know  only  too  well,"  replied  Tyson, 
"but,"  he  persisted,  "I  must  nevertheless 
speak.  I  should  be  a  poor  friend  if  I  were  to 
fail  to  point  out  to  you  how  alarming  are  the 
complications  surrounding  you." 

Jerry  bent  his  crop  in  both  hands.  "I  do  not 
seem  to  be  alarmed,"  he  indifferently  returned. 

11 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"No,  confound  you!"  Tyson  answered,  "that 
is  what  troubles  me.  If  you  would  but  once 
realize  that  you  are  daily  walking  over  a  vol- 
cano  " 

Jerry  burst  into  laughter.  "A  regular  Ve- 
suvius— eh,  Jack?"  he  shouted.  But  his  laugh 
rang  falsely. 

"I  fear  so,"  rejoined  Tyson,  with  inflexible 
face.  "Let  us  look  at  your  affairs  squarely. 
Consider  Beatrice — the  cleverest  schemer  in  all 
New  York.  She  intends  to  marry  you " 

"Marry  me!    Oh,  Lord!"  interrupted  Jerry. 

"Yes,  marry  you,"  returned  Tyson  steadily. 
"Every  one  knows  it.  Now,  let  us  suppose,  my 
dear  boy,  that  Beatrice  finds  out  about  Kitty — 
what  then?" 

"Well,  what  then?"  mocked  Jerry. 

"There  would  be  the  devil  to  pay,  that's  all," 
responded  Tyson.  "She  would  not  hesitate  to 
go  to  your  father " 

"Suppose  she  should?"  replied  Jerry,  sitting 
by  a  table  and  coolly  rapping  its  polished  sur- 
face with  his  knuckles  to  emphasize  his  words. 

12 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"Suppose  she  should?  You  know  perfectly, 
Jack,  that  the  governor  believes  implicitly  in 
me — that  he  would  take  no  one's  word  but 
mine.  I  should  like  to  see  Trix  make  any  fuss 
between  dad  and  me." 

Tyson  hesitated  a  moment;  then  taking  a 
chair,  drew  it  up  close  to  Jerry  and  sitting 
down  by  him,  laid  his  hand  quietly  upon  his 
arm.  The  contrast  between  the  two  young 
men  was  absolute  at  this  moment.  Jerry's 
handsome  face,  with  its  tell-tale  marks,  bore 
an  expression  of  mingled  defiance  and  amuse- 
ment. Tyson's  strong,  clear-cut  features, 
clean  lips  and  steely,  earnest  eyes,  bore  witness 
to  the  power  within  him  and  his  honest  desire 
to  serve  his  friend.  "Jerry,"  he  said  quietly, 
"why  do  you  not  do  what  is  right  by  Kitty?" 

"What  is  right?  Haven't  I  given  her  every- 
thing a  woman  could  wish?"  demanded  Jerry 
with  considerable  asperity.  "Haven't " 

"You  have  been  very  generous,"  returned 
Tyson  gravely,  "from  a  commercial  stand- 

13 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

point.    But  you  have  withheld  the  one  thing  to 
make  her  happy." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Jerry  in  evi- 
dent surprise. 

"Your  name,"  returned  Tyson  still  more 
earnestly. 

"My  name?  Are  you  crazy?  Do  you 
mean " 

"I  mean — marry  her,"  interrupted  Tyson. 

"Marry!"  exploded  Jerry. 

"Yes,"  replied  Tyson,  his  eyes  steadfastly 
searching  Jerry's.  "Make  an  honest  woman 
of  her.  She  loves  you — worships  you — she 
is  not  happy.  Oh,  I  often  see  her  eyes  fill  with 
tears  when  she  looks  at  you.  And  now,  there 
is  an  additional  reason  for  your  treating  her 
squarely.  Kitty  is  not  a  bad  girl,"  he  con- 
tinued. "She  is  a  good  girl  gone  wrong.  Her 
instincts,  her  impulses  are  noble.  She  longs 
to  be  able  to  look  the  world  in  the  face." 

"Oh,  hang  it  all,  Jack!"  cried  Jerry,  spring- 
ing to  his  feet.  "Will  you  let  me  manage  my 
own  affairs?" 

14 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

There  was  a  deep  silence.  Tyson  had  risen 
with  dignity  and  was  picking  up  his  hat  and 
stick  preparatory  to  taking  his  leave.  The 
silent  protest  of  his  manner  moved  Jerry,  who 
was  really  attached  to  him,  and  he  impulsively 
cried  out:  "Oh,  I  say,  Jack,  I  don't  want  to 
quarrel  with  you,  but  I  can't  stand  being 
preached  at.  Just  let  me  alone.  Everything  is 
all  right." 

"I  tell  you,  Jerry,"  returned  Tyson,  "I  am 
worried." 

"Well,  now,  Jack,"  cried  Jerry  with  gay 
good  humor,  as  he  laid  his  crop  on  the  piano 
and  going  to  Tyson  thrust  his  arm  affection- 
ately through  his,  "why  not  join  the  'Don't 
Worry  Club'  and  quit  raising  blooming  rows 
with  your  best  friend?  Now,  don't  you  think 
life  would  look  brighter  every  way  if  you  had 
a  highball?  Come  along,  you  old  croaker,"  he 
added,  dragging  Tyson  toward  the  smoking- 
room;  "come  along.  I'm  going  to  mix  you  one 
that  will  make  you  forget  your  troubles.  Not 
a  word.  Come  on";  and,  despite  Tyson's  ex- 

15 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

postulations  that  it  was  late  and  he  must  hurry 
away  to  dress  for  dinner,  Jerry  haled  him  off. 

A  few  moments  later,  the  frou-frou  of  silks 
in  the  drawing-room  announced  a  visitor.  The 
lady,  whom  Thomas  had  shown  in,  was  a  fash- 
ionable woman  of  thirty,  very  elegant  and  ar- 
rogant of  bearing,  although  at  the  moment  ap- 
parently perturbed.  One  would  have  said 
from  her  rather  distrait  manner  that  she 
might  just  have  heard  news  that  had  profound- 
ly vexed  her.  For  the  rest,  she  was  a  self- 
assured  woman  of  the  world,  with  worldly 
knowledge  looking  out  from  under  her  dark, 
pencilled  eyebrows,  with  worldly  wisdom  lurk- 
ing around  the  corners  of  her  scornful,  curved 
lips. 

"So  the  ladies  are  not  in?"  she  was  saying 
to  the  servant,  as  she  stood  for  a  moment  as  if 
irresolute. 

"Mrs.  Adriance  is  driving,  madam,"  re- 
turned the  man.  "Miss  Adriance  has  just 
come  in  from  riding  with  Mr.  Gerald." 

LThe  woman  gave  an  almost  imperceptible 
16 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

start.  "Oh,  very  well,"  she  said  with  well- 
assumed  indifference.  "I  will  wait  until  she 
comes  down."  She  trailed  her  laces  and  silks 
across  to  a  davenport  and  sank  into  its  luxury 
of  cushions,  slowly  pulling  off  her  gloves. 
Directly  the  man  left  the  room,  a  mask  seemed 
to  drop  from  her  insolent  eyes  and  tense  fea- 
tures. She  grew  old,  and  a  haggard,  hunted 
look  crept  in  her  face.  "What  can  it  mean?" 
she  muttered.  "A  few  weeks  ago  all  devotion 
— at  my  feet — everything  seemed  in  my  grasp 
— and  now — absolutely  indifferent.  I  must 
know  what  has  happened.  Oh,  if  I  could  man- 
age to  see  him  a  moment  alone."  She  looked 
furtively  about  as  if  considering  ways  and 
means. 

A  gay  voice  was  heard  singing  in  the  dis- 
tance the  La  donna  e  mobile  from  Rigoletto. 
The  woman  started,  turned  and  clasped  her 
hands  feverishly  until  her  costly  rings  cut  ink) 
her  fingers.  The  taunting  voice  came  nearer, 
and  presently  Jerry  sauntered  in,  debonair,  a 
trifle  flushed,  singing  of  the  fickleness  of  all 

17 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

woman-kind.  He  stopped  short  as  he  saw  the 
visitor,  who  had  sprung  to  her  feet,  crying  out : 
"Gerald!" 

She  glided  toward  him  with  a  certain  fas- 
cination of  movement,  both  hands  extended, 
her  eyes  shining,  her  lips  curving  with  trium- 
phant smiles.  This  was  so  much  better  than 
she  had  dreamed — to  be  able  to  see  him  alone 
— to  find  him  kind,  perhaps  devoted,  after  all 
her  fears. 

Jerry  took  one  of  her  hands  perfunctorily. 
"Ah,  how-de-do,  Trix?"  he  murmured  care- 
lessly. "I  didn't  know  you  were  here.  I  came 
to  look  for  my  crop.  I  left  it  here  somewhere." 
He  professed  to  busily  hunt  about. 

"Gerald,"  said  Beatrice  imploringly,  "what 
is  the  matter?" 

Jerry  looked  at  her,  lifting  his  eyebrows. 
"Matter?"  he  said  indifferently.  "Why,  noth- 
ing. What  an  absurd  question." 

"Absurd?"  she  uneasily  returned.  "When  I 
have  not  seen  you  for  a  month " 

Gerald  concealed  a  yawn  behind  his  hand. 
18 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "more  and  more  ab- 
surd. Why,  you  dined  here  last  evening." 

Beatrice  went  closer  to  him.  "Ah,  you  know 
what  I  mean,"  she  murmured  in  low,  affection- 
ate tones.  "I  have  not  seen  you  alone  for  a 
month.  And  whenever  I  have  met  you,  here  or 
elsewhere,  you  have  avoided  me — glanced  cold- 
ly at  me.  Oh,  it  is  intolerable!  Gerald,  I  will 
know  what  it  means.  What  has  come  be- 
tween us?" 

"Oh,  I  say,  Trix,"  said  Jerry,  with  an  ar- 
gumentative air,  "do  be  sensible.  Don't,  I  beg, 
work  yourself  into  a  white  heat.  You  are  so 
deucedly  intense.  I  tell  you  it's  awfully  wear- 
ing on  a  fellow." 

Beatrice  recoiled  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 
How  could  she  cope  with  this  airy  insolence? 
"How  dare  you  speak  so  insultingly?"  she 
stammered.  "Come,  let  us  have  the  truth.  Do 
you  no  longer  love  me?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  love  you,"  replied  Jerry, 
as  if  reciting  a  lesson.  "But  I  can't  be  telling 
you  of  my  passion  every  moment.  Come," 

19 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

with  a  bantering  air,  "Trix,  be  a  reasonable 
woman  of  the  world.  We  are  not  children. 
We  have  been  good  friends — we  will  continue 
so.  But  for  the  love  of  Heaven  do  not  expect 
me  to  go  into  rhapsodies  over  you  every  time 
we  meet." 

"Good  friends!"  muttered  Beatrice.  She  put 
out  a  hand  and  grasped  the  back  of  a  chair  to 
steady  herself.  At  that  moment  she  hated  this 
gay,  nonchalant  man  whose  manner  taunted 
her  so  airily  with  her  weakness. 

The  staid  Thomas  here  coughed  apologetic- 
ally and  murmured  from  the  doorway:  "Beg 
pardon,  Mr.  Gerald,  but  the  groom  arsks  if 
you  would  come  take  a  look  at  Miss  Adriance's 
'orse.  'E  says  the  hanimal's  very  bad,  sir." 

"I  will  come  at  once,  Thomas,"  replied  Jer- 
ry, greatly  relieved  at  the  interruption.  "You 
will  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Evans.  Miss  Adriance 
will  be  down  soon."  He  hurried  after  the 
servant,  plainly  exhibiting  his  eagerness  to 
leave  her. 

"Mrs.  Evans!"  repeated  Beatrice  mechan- 
20 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

ically.  She  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  upon 
the  floor,  then  slowly  returned  to  the  sofa, 
picked  up  her  muff  and  gloves,  paused  as  if 
undecided  upon  her  course,  then  went  toward 
the  door.  There  was  a  sudden  ripple  of  sweet, 
shrill  laughter  in  the  hall  without  and  a  mur- 
mur of  voices.  Thomas  swept  aside  the  por- 
tieres, and  a  young  woman — a  fashionable  doll 
— superbly  gowned,  with  an  up-to-date  swag- 
ger and  an  impertinent  manner,  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  a  man,  lazy  of  bearing,  drawling  of 
speech,  immaculate  of  dress,  from  his  gar- 
denia to  his  spats. 

The  newcomer  greeted  Mrs.  Evans  with  ex- 
aggerated effusion,  then  whipped  out  an  ame- 
thyst-studded lorgnette  and  regarded  her  with 
offensive  concern. 


21 


CHAPTER  III 

"When  Greek  meets  Greek, 
Then  comes  the  tug  of  war." 

WHILE  Mr.  Richard  Flornoy  was  busily  en- 
gaged in  Wall  Street  smashing  the  fortunes 
of  others  and  incidentally  bettering  his  own, 
madam,  his  wife,  amused  herself  according  to 
her  tastes.  Adelaide  Flornoy  was  the  type  of 
woman  who  lives  absolutely  for  diversion.  She 
was  seen  everywhere,  her  gowns  were  always 
described  by  the  fashion  writers,  her  entertain- 
ments, at  once  unique  and  grotesque,  were 
eagerly  seized  upon  by  paragraphers  to  point 
the  moral  of  society's  degeneracy.  It  was  she 
who  gave  puppy  luncheons  and  pink  teas  for 
Angora  cats;  who  first  appeared  at  Sherry's 
wearing  a  marmoset  chained  to  her  dainty 
wrist;  whose  bull  terrier  made  a  sensation  on 

22 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

Fifth  Avenue  in  automobile  goggles  and  coat. 
She  affected  an  air  of  insolent  languor  and  was 
never  so  happy  as  when  offering  a  deliberate 
insult  to  some  one.  Beatrice  she  detested,  and 
it  was  with  unholy  joy  that  she  now  saw  her. 
It  was  too  good  to  be  true  that  she  should  be 
here,  ready  for  slaughter.  "Such  luck!"  she 
breathed  to  Bobby  Dwyer,  who  was  the  latest 
addition  to  her  retinue  of  attendants — her 
"trailers,"  as  she  was  pleased  to  call  them. 

Bobby,  known  about  town  as  a  "howling 
swell,"  was  a  member  of  the  jeunesse  doree, 
vapid  and  docile,  a  typical  tame  cat.  He  con- 
sidered it  a  distinction  to  be  known  as  a 
"trailer"  of  Mrs.  Dick  Flornoy,  and  obediently 
trotted  about  with  her,  carrying  her  fan,  muff, 
or  opera  cloak,  as  the  season  and  the  lady  de- 
manded. 

Beatrice  gave  him  a  careless  nod  as  he  stood, 
waiting  for  Mrs.  Flornoy  to  be  seated.  But 
Adelaide  was  in  no  haste.  She  continued  to 
look  Beatrice  over  with  the  studied  curiosity 
one  might  bestow  upon  some  strange,  unknown 

23 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

insect,  and,  when  the  latter  grew  restless  under 
her  prolonged  survey,  drawled  out:  "Upon 
my  word,  my  dear  Trix,  you  are  absolutely 
ghastly.  Are  you  ill,  or  is  it  this  light  that 
makes  you  so  yellow?" 

Beatrice  flushed  a  dull  red.  "I  never  felt 
better  in  my  life,  my  dear  Adelaide,  I  assure 
you.  Won't  you  sit  down?"  with  a  conde- 
scending motion  toward  a  chair. 

Mrs.  Flornoy  sank  into  the  seat.  "Thanks," 
she  drawled;  "you  are  so  kind.  One  would 
think,  dear,  that  you  were  mistress  here." 

"Now  for  it!"  chuckled  Bobby. 

"You  looked  so  awkward,  standing,  my  dear 
Adelaide,"  returned  Beatrice,  coldly. 

"They're  off!"  Bobby  muttered  with  delight. 

Adelaide  played  languidly  with  her  lor- 
gnette. "I  fancy,"  she  said  with  significance, 
"you  are  waiting  to  see  Mrs.  Adriance.  You 
are  so  devoted  to  her,  I  hear." 

"Possibly,"  returned  Beatrice,  enigmatical- 

iy- 

"Or,    possibly    the    little    one,"    Adelaide 
24 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

drawled  on.  "You  have  so  much  in  common. 
She  is  so  innocent,  so  unsophisticated.  There 
must  be  great  sympathy  between  you."  Bob- 
by sniggered  in  his  hat. 

"Really,  my  dear  Adelaide,"  said  Beatrice, 
haughtily,  "you  grow  more  and  more  insuffer- 
able." 

"Don't  get  in  a  nasty  temper,  Trixy  dear," 
retorted  Mrs.  Flornoy;  "it  makes  you  look  so 
old." 

"That's  a  hot  one,"  said  Bobby  to  himself, 
as  Beatrice,  with  an  inarticulate  exclamation, 
rose  and,  going  over  to  the  piano,  picked  up 
the  score  of  "Mexicana,"  and  affected  to  study 
it.  Mrs.  Flornoy  watching  her  maliciously, 
saw  her  hands  trembling.  It  was  now  the 
psychological  moment  to  spring  her  mine. 
"Where  is  Jerry?"  she  suddenly  demanded. 

"I  am  sure  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea,"  re- 
turned Beatrice,  with  an  air  of  indifference. 

"No?"  queried  Adelaide,  sweetly.  "Why, 
how  is  that?  The  man  said  he  was  at  home — 

25 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

here."  There  was  a  world  of  significance  in 
the  last  word. 

"What  a  little  devil !"  said  Bobby  to  his 
waistcoat. 

"Have  j;ou  not  seen  him?"  persisted  Mrs. 
Flornoy. 

Beatrice  slammed  the  book  together.  "Oh, 
this  is  unendurable!"  she  cried.  "Why  do  you 
catechise  me  in  this  impertinent  fashion?" 

"Catechise?"  returned  Mrs.  Flornoy,  in  an 
injured  tone.  "Nonsense!  I  ask  you  an  ordi- 
narily civil  question  and  you  fly  in  a  fury.  I 
say,  Trixy,  dear,  you  should  see  a  physician  at 
once.  Your  nerves  must  be  dreadfully  on  edge, 
or" — as  if  on  second  thought — "perhaps  you 
have  heard  the  news  and  are  a  trifle  upset — 
naturally "  She  paused  significantly. 

"What  news?"  asked  Beatrice,  icily.  She 
had  somewhat  recovered  her  composure  and 
was  again  looking  over  the  score. 

"That  Jerry "  eagerly  began  Bobby. 

"Shut  up,  Bobby,"  interrupted  Adelaide. 
"I  wish  to  tell  it.  Is  it  possible,"  she  con- 

26 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

tinued  with  a  wicked  relish,  "that  you  have  not 
heard  that  Jerry  is  to  marry  soon?" 

The  score  dropped  from  Beatrice's  hands. 
It  crashed  harshly  on  the  keys  of  the  piano, 
then  bounded  to  the  floor.  Beatrice  paid  no 
heed.  She  stood  staring  at  Adelaide  as  if 
dazed.  Bobby  picked  up  the  score  and  laid  it 
back  on  the  piano.  "It's  a  facer  for  Trix!" 
he  thought,  and  grinned  with  delight,  for  he 
recalled  certain  slights  he  had  received  from 
her  in  the  past. 

"Marry!"  said  Beatrice,  in  a  tense,  hard 
voice.  "Marry!  Jerry — to  marry?" 

"Ye-e-s,"  drawled  Mrs.  Flornoy.  It  seemed 
she  could  never  finish  the  word,  with  so  much 
relish  did  she  drag  it  out. 

"And  whom,  pray,"  went  on  Beatrice  with 
ominous  calmness,  "is  he  to  marry?" 

"Why "  cried  Bobby,  coming  forward. 

"Shut  up,  I  tell  you!"  ordered  Adelaide, 
with  considerable  asperity.  "Why  do  you  keep 
butting  in  to  spoil  my  fun?  He  is" — with  a 

27 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

narrowing  of  her  eyes  as  she  glanced  at  Bea- 
trice— "he  is  going  to  marry  Miss  Adriance." 

"Miss  Adriance?"  repeated  Beatrice,  bewil- 
dered. "Miss  A— Lily?" 

"Yes,"  assented  Mrs.  Flornoy,  gloating 
upon  her. 

"Lily — that— that  child?"  stammered  Bea- 
trice. 

"Yes,  Lily.  That  lovely — innocent — sweet 
— young  girl,"  returned  her  tormentor,  stab- 
bing her  with  every  word.  "Quite  a  pastoral, 
is  it  not,  Trixy,  dear?" 

"Oh,  she's  a  bird,"  said  Bobby  to  himself, 
and  on  second  thought  added:  "A  cat-bird." 

Beatrice  made  a  desperate  effort  to  recover 
herself.  "Rubbish!"  she  said  contemptuously. 
"I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it." 

It  was  now  Mrs.  Flornoy 's  turn  to  be 
vexed.  While  she  saw  Beatrice  was  suffering, 
she  was  happy.  Now  that  her  victim  was 
composing  herself,  she  became  furious.  "But 
it  is  true,"  she  declared  with  much  warmth. 
"Everjr  one  is  talking  about  it."  Beatrice, 

28 


THE   STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

shrugging  her  shoulders,  sat  at  the  piano  and 
lightly  touched  the  keys.  "I  have  heard  it  in 
a  dozen  places  to-day,"  Adelaide  went  on  spite- 
fully. "Oh,  well,  if  you  are  going  to  take  it 
that  way,"  for  Beatrice  was  playing  on  as  if 
utterly  oblivious.  "I  was  in  hopes,"  she  mut- 
tered to  Bobby,  as  at  a  sign  from  her,  he  placed 
her  ermine  stole  about  her,  "she  would  faint,  or, 
at  the  very  least,  have  hysterics." 

She  stood  adjusting  her  gloves  and  watch- 
ing Beatrice,  who  seemed  after  all  to  have 
foiled  her,  so  calmly  was  she  playing,  her 
haughty  face  quite  inscrutable  and  undisturbed. 
She  could  not  leave  her  like  that,  mistress  of 
the  situation.  She  suddenly  took  a  step  or  two 
toward  the  piano,  an  evil  smile  gleaming  in  her 
cruel,  green  eyes.  "They  say  he  is  desperately 
in  love  with  her.  Perfectly  infatuated — he  is 
telling  everybody  that  he  was  never  in  love  be- 
fore  " 

There  was  a  terrific  discord.  Beatrice  struck 
the  keys,  white  with  rage.  Then,  springing  up, 
she  came  toward  Adelaide  with  eyes  aflame. 

29 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Now  you'll  see  war,"  announced  Bobby  to 
his  inner  consciousness. 

"Oh,  what  do  I  care  for  a  bulletin  of  Jerry 
Sunderland's  affections?"  stormed  Beatrice. 
"Will  you  kindly  choose  some  other  topic  for 
discussion?" 

"I  have  roused  her  at  last,"  chuckled  Ade- 
laide, as  she  turned  to  go.  "Come,  Bobby,  let 
us  rush  to  Mrs.  King's  tea  and  tell  everybody 
how  she  is  taking  it."  Then  to  Beatrice:  "I 
think  we  won't  wait  longer  to  see  Mrs.  Adri- 
ance,  dear.  She  may  shop  all  the  afternoon. 
Women  have  been  known  to  do  it."  She  set- 
tled her  furs  and  laces  complacently  before  the 
mirror.  "And  I  have  other  visits  to  pay. 
Good-by,  Trixy,  dearest.  I  hope  you  will  re- 
cover from  this  blow.  Come,  Bobby." 

"That  is  right,  my  dear  Adelaide,"  said  Bea- 
trice, standing  white  and  grim.  "Do  not  for- 
get your  property." 

"My  property?"  returned  Mrs.  Flornoy,  as 
if  bewildered.  She  glanced  at  her  muff,  shook 
out  her  handkerchief,  looked  about  to  see  if 

30 


THE  STUFF  OF  DBEAMS 

she  had  dropped  anything.  "My — er — prop- 
erty?" 

"Yes — your  property,"  replied  Beatrice, 
with  a  significant  glance  at  Bobby. 

"Oh!  Ah — er — you  mean — Bobby?"  queried 
Adelaide. 

"Possibly,"  Beatrice  answered,  with  one  of 
her  enigmatic  looks. 

"Ah,  well,  my  dear  Trix,"  purred  Mrs.  Flor- 
noy,  "you  must  not  fancy  that  you  are  the 
only  woman  in  New  York  who  has  the  privi- 
lege of  compromising  herself.  Good-by, 
dear.  So  glad  to  have  seen  you."  She  hesi- 
tated a  moment.  "Oh,  by  the  way,  when  you 
are  congratulating  Jerry,  as  I  fancy  you  are 
remaining  to  do,  give  him  my  felicitations, 
won't  you,  dear?"  She  passed,  laughing,  out 
into  the  hall.  Bobby  followed  her,  still  grin- 
ning at  Beatrice's  discomfiture. 

Beatrice  stood  in  a  deadly,  cold  rage.  She 
clutched  in  her  hands  a  tiny  fragment  of  lace 
and  linen.  Slowly  and  with  dreadful  pre- 
cision, she  tore  this  handkerchief  into  strips. 

31 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

Suddenly,  through  the  half-drawn  draperies, 
she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Lily,  as  she  descended 
the  stairs,  clad  in  a  film)7  dinner  gown.  The 
girl  looked  as  pure  and  virginal  as  her  name- 
sake. For  one  instant  the  furious  woman  hesi- 
tated, then,  turning  hastily,  entered  the  con- 
servatory opening  from  the  upper  end  of  the 
drawing-room  and  concealed  herself  therein, 
behind  some  huge  tropical  plants. 


32 


CHAPTER  IV 

"Could  I  come  near  your  beauty  with  my  nails, 
I'd  set  my  ten  commandments  in  your  face." 

ENTERING  the  drawing-room,  Lily  looked 
about  her  as  if  expecting  to  see  some  one.  A 
puzzled  expression  crept  over  her  face.  She 
had  been  told  that  Mrs.  Evans  would  wait  for 
her  descent,  but  the  empty  room  proclaimed 
that  Beatrice  had  departed. 

Going  over  to  the  piano,  Lily  opened  the 
score  of  "Mexicana,"  which  still  reposed  upon 
the  rack  where  Bobby  had  placed  it,  and  be- 
gan playing  softly.  She  did  not  hear  Gerald 
as  he  stole  up  behind  her  and  regarded  her 
fondly.  The  transparent  bodice  of  her  dainty 
gown  revealed  the  beautiful  contour  of  her 
throat  and  shoulders.  Her  small,  charmingly- 
poised  head  was  bent  over  the  keys,  and  Jerry 

33 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

remarked  the  tiny  curls  at  the  nape  of  her 
sweet,  white  neck,  the  burnished  waves  above 
caught  by  a  glittering  circle  of  diamonds. 
Everything  about  her,  so  refined,  luxurious 
and  feminine,  appealed  powerfully  to  his  mate- 
rial nature.  At  this  moment,  he  could  scarce- 
ly resist  the  impulse  to  draw  her  back  in  his 
arms  and  kiss  the  lovely,  piquant  face.  Some 
little  movement  of  his  startled  her,  and  she  sud- 
denly looked  back.  "Jerry!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Why,  where  upon  earth  were  you?  I  did  not 
see  you." 

"No,"  he  answered,  coming  to  her  side  and 
looking  down  at  her  with  burning  eyes.  "I 
have  just  this  moment  come  from  the  stables. 
Your  little  mare  has  gone  quite  lame.  How- 
ever, I  have  ordered  a  veterinary  and  I  think 
she  will  come  around  all  right."  He  paused 
and  looked  about.  "But  where  is  Trix?" 

"Oh,  you  saw  her,  then?"  asked  Lily,  still 
playing. 

"Yes,"  said  Gerald,  with  a  grimace.  "I  saw 
her." 

84 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"I  understood  Thomas  that  she  would  wait," 
said  Lily. 

"She  had  an  engagement,"  returned  Jerry, 
glibly,  "and  was  obliged  to  hurry  away." 

"How  was  she?" Lily  mischievously  inquired. 
"As  handsome  and  stunning  as  ever?" 

"Oh,  do  not  let  us  waste  our  time  talking  of 
Trix,"  said  he,  with  some  impatience. 

"Why,  sir,  I  am  amazed,"  retorted  Lily.  "I 
thought  you  were  devoted  to  Trix." 

"Oh,    Trix    is    well    enough "    began 

Gerald. 

"Well  enough!"  cried  Lily.  "One  of  the 
most  fascinating  women  in  society — every  one 
says  that." 

"Well,"  rejoined  Gerald,  indifferently, 
"what  every  one  says  must  be  so.  But,  Lily," 
he  added  tenderly,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you  of 
another  woman." 

Lily  wheeled  about  on  the  piano  stool  so 
that  she  faced  Gerald.  "Lovely!"  she  ingenu- 
ously exclaimed.  "I  do  so  adore  to  hear  of 
your  flirtations,  Jerry." 

35 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"This  is  not  a  flirtation,"  he  said,  searching 
her  upturned  eyes  with  his. 

"Dear  me!"  she  lightly  cried.  "Is  it  seri- 
ous?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  drawing  a  long  breath;  "yes, 
it  is  serious." 

"Fancy!"  she  exclaimed.  "Well,  my  dear 
brother " 

He  impatiently  interrupted  her.  "Do  not 
call  me  that." 

"Why?"  she  naively  asked. 

"I  am  not  your  brother,"  he  said. 

"I  know,"  she  answered,  with  a  nod  of  ac- 
quiescence. "But  ever  since  we  were  children 
I  have  looked  on  you  as  such,  Jerry,  dear." 

Gerald  bent  over  her  and  took  her  hand  in 
both  his.  "But  you  must  not  any  longer,  Lily," 
he  urged. 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "Must  I  not? 
What  then?"  she  asked. 

"I  wish  you  to  look  on  me  now,  dearest," 
he  returned,  throwing  all  possible  ardor  into 
his  glance  and  voice,  "as  your  lover." 

36 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"You — my  lover?"  the  girl  repeated  in 
amazement.  Then  suddenly  withdrawing  her 
hand,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  crossed  the 
room,  laughing  merrilly.  "Oh,  Jerry,  you  ras- 
cal, you  are  joking,"  she  cried. 

Gerald  instantly  followed  her.  "No,  I  was 
never  more  in  earnest,  Lily,"  he  persisted.  "I 
love  you  devotedly.  You  will,  you  must  be 
my  wife." 

Lily  looked  at  him  from  under  her  long,  curl- 
ing lashes  with  a  tantalizing  smile.  "Jerry, 
you  are  crazy,"  was  all  she  vouchsafed. 

"You  will  drive  me  so  if  you  refuse  me,"  he 
savagely  replied.  "I  know,  dearest,  you  are 
only  a  child.  The  idea  of  marriage  has  prob- 
ably never  entered  your  dear  little  head." 

"Oh,  yes  it  has,"  returned  Lily,  sagely. 

Gerald  laughed.  "Well,  so  much  the  bet- 
ter, then,"  he  said,  going  a  step  or  two  nearer 
her. 

"But,  Jerry,"  she  added,  looking  at  him  with 
the  frank  gaze  of  a  child,  "I  never  thought  of 
marrying  you." 

37 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded,  piqued.  "Am  I 
a  monster?" 

"No,  no,  dear,"  she  gently  rejoined.  "But 
I  tell  you  I  have  always  regarded  you  as  my 
brother.  Your  father  has  been  like  my  own 
father.  Oh,  I  can't  entertain  the  idea." 

"Ah,  Lily,  but  you  must!"  he  pleaded.  "You 
know  how  devoted  the  governor  is  to  you. 
Nothing  would  please  him  so  much  as  our  mar- 
riage." 

"Dear  guardie,"  said  Lily,  thoughtfully. 

"He  has  always  wanted  a  daughter,"  went 
on  Gerald,  growing  more  ardent  as  he  saw 
Lily's  absolute  indifference.  "He  adores  you. 
It  would  please  your  mother,  too.  Lily — dar- 
ling— do  not  keep  me  in  suspense.  I  think  I 
have  always  loved  you,  although  I  have  not 
realized  it  until  recently." 

"Ah,  Jerry,  dear,"  the  girl  pouted,  "can  you 
be  serious?  You  know  you  are  always  in  love 
with  some  one." 

"But  not  as  I  am  with  you,"  he  urged. 
38 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Do  not  men  always  say  that?"  Lily  asked, 
her  dimples  coming  and  going. 

Gerald  was  nonplussed  for  a  moment. 
"Dearest,"  he  murmured,  "how  can  I  tell  what 
other  men  say?  Why  do  you  hesitate,  Lily?" 
A  sudden  idea  seized  him.  "Is  there  some  one 
else?"  He  watched  her  intently. 

"No-o,"  returned  Lily,  slowly,  as  if  con- 
sidering. She  drew  the  pattern  of  the  carpet 
with  the  toe  of  her  enchanting  slipper.  "No — • 
I— I  think  not." 

"Think  not!"  cried  Gerald,  laughing  tri- 
umphantly. "Why,  then,  Lily " 

"I  must  think  it  over,"  the  girl  replied,  with 
a  half  sigh.  "I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  love 
you  in  that  way." 

He  was  close  beside  her  now.  He  marked 
the  sigh,  the  fluttering  of  her  downcast  lids,  the 
color  rising  in  her  fair  cheeks,  and  took  these 
signs  as  indications  of  surrender.  "I  will  teach 
you,"  he  whispered.  "Ah,  Lily,  sweet  child, 

you  madden  me "  He  suddenly  crushed  her 

in  his  arms,  holding  her  passionately,  his  dar- 

39 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

ing  eyes  feasting  on  her  terrified  face.  "Tell 
me  now — now — that  you  are  mine." 

"Oh,  Gerald,  stop,"  she  implored;  "let  me 
go — you  frighten  mel"  She  desperately 
wrenched  herself  from  his  hold  and  fled  from 
the  room. 

Gerald  stood  looking  after  her,  every  pulse 
in  his  body  pounding  like  mad.  He  was,  he 
honestly  believed,  in  love  with  Lily.  That  one 
moment,  when  her  soft,  pliant  body  had  lain 
helpless  in  his  arms,  tormented  him  with  its 
thrilling  remembrance.  Why  had  he  not  kissed 
her?  he  asked  himself.  Why  had  he  not  taken 
what  was  within  his  grasp? 

He  had  no  compunction  for  her,  no  regret 
that  he  had  rudely  startled  her  from  the  uncon- 
sciousness of  innocence.  "She  is  old  enough  to 
know,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  I  shall  have 
her."  He  turned  and  sauntered  back  across 
the  room.  And,  as  he  reached  the  piano,  a 
woman  came  swiftly  out  of  the  conservatory 
and  confronted  him :  a  woman  with  a  livid  face 

40 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

and  dreadful  eyes — eyes  that  called  him  to 
judgment  and  doomed  him  beforehand. 

For  an  instant  not  a  word  was  spoken.  The 
two  regarded  each  other  like  duellists  before 
the  fatal  signal  is  given.  Who  knows  what 
phantoms  of  worn-out  passion  swept  between 
this  man  and  woman?  What  ghosts  of  dead 
pleasures  gibbered  and  mocked  at  them? 

Beatrice  spoke  first.  "So  this  is  the  reason 
you  have  wearied  of  me,"  she  said  in  a  tense, 
strained  voice.  "And  do  you  fancy,  Gerald 
Sunderland,  that  you  can  throw  me  over  in  this 
fashion?" 

"Now,  Trix,"  Gerald  began  in  a  placating 
tone,  "for  God's  sake,  don't  make  a  scene.  You 
must  have  known  all  along  that  our" — he  hesi- 
tated— "our  friendship  would  come  to  an  end." 

"You — you — to  marry  that  child!"  Beatrice 
answered,  choking  with  rage.  "You — you 
blackguard — you  profligate " 

The  habitual  sneer  on  Jerry's  short  upper 
lip  deepened.  "Tut,  tut,  Trix,"  he  insolently 
replied,  "do  not  call  names.  It's  bad  form. 

41 


Grant  that  I  am  all  you  say — a  profligate — it's 
women  like  you  who  have  made  me  so " 

Beatrice  snatched  his  crop  from  the  piano 
and  struck  him  with  it  full  in  the  face.  "Cow- 
ard!" she  panted;  "I  could  kill  you!" 

Gerald  sprang  upon  her  and  wrested  the 
crop  from  the  infuriated  woman.  They  stood 
for  one  moment,  two  awful  figures,  staring  at 
each  other  through  a  mist  of  hatred;  then  like 
a  whirlwind,  Beatrice  rushed  into  the  hall.  The 
street  door  slammed  heavily  behind  her. 

Gerald,  pressing  his  hand  to  his  cheek,  where 
a  dull  red  line  began  to  show,  went  slowly  to 
his  rooms. 


42 


CHAPTER  V 

"True  I  talk  of  dreams, 
Which  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain, 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy." 

GEORGE  SUNDERLAND  closed  the  library  door 
behind  him  and  slowly  sauntered  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. Although  it  was  a  mild  spring 
evening,  a  fire  was  snapping  on  the  marble- 
tiled  hearth  and  his  favorite  chair  was  drawn 
up  before  the  cheery  blaze.  He  threw  himself 
down,  and,  drawing  a  cigar  from  his  pocket, 
lit  it  and  smoked  leisurely.  His  splendid, 
leonine  head,  with  its  thick  masses  of  silvered 
hair,  was  thrown  back  against  the  orange  vel- 
vet cushions  and  his  gaze  was  fastened  on  the 
mirror  frame  above  the  mantel.  It  was  an 
ornate  affair  of  gilt  and  ormolu,  decorated  with 

43 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

tiny  cupids,  nymphs  and  roses,  and  crowned 
with  a  satyr's  grinning  face. 

George  Sunderland  was  fifty-three  years 
young.  No  one  ever  associated  age  with  his 
superb  physique,  his  strong,  commanding  face, 
his  eyes  of  black  velvet  with  their  luminous 
smile,  or  the  lips  that  betokened  sweetness  of 
disposition  combined  with  firmness  of  will.  He 
was  conceded  by  every  one  to  be  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  in  New  York  and  equally 
well  known  for  his  jealously  guarded  honor, 
honesty  of  purpose  and  intense  love  of  justice, 
the  latter  attribute  amounting  almost  to  a  pas- 
sion. "If  Sunderland  is  a  crank  on  any  sub- 
ject it  is  that  of  justice,"  his  friends  often 
declared. 

A  widower  from  the  birth  of  his  only  child, 
Sunderland  had  idolized  the  son  he  had  reared 
carefully,  albeit  indulgently.  Every  oppor- 
tunity for  culture  had  been  open  to  the  boy. 
Private  tuition,  a  college  course  at  Yale,  travel 
abroad — all  the  advantages  that  the  resources 
of  a  vast  fortune  could  procure — the  father  had 

44 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

bestowed  upon  his  son.  It  was  his  life's  am- 
bition that  Gerald  be  appropriately  equipped 
for  the  magnificent  inheritance  which  one  day 
would  be  his.  He  built  up  for  his  idol  a  struc- 
ture of  beautiful  fancies.  He  saw  him  in  the 
years  to  come,  honored,  respected,  a  great 
power  in  finance,  possibly  in  statesmanship, 
married  to  some  exquisite  girl  and  with  beau- 
tiful children  about  him,  growing  up  to  per- 
petuate the  name  of  Sunderland.  He  loved 
and  trusted  his  son,  believing  him  to  be  a  young 
man  of  merit  and  clean  character,  wiiile  all  the 
world  asked:  "Is  it  possible  that  Sunderland 
does  not  know  what  a  devil  Jerry  is?" 

That  he  had  not  yet  discovered  his  son's  true 
character,  was  mainly  due  to  two  facts — he 
had  unquestioningly  given  him  a  handsome  in- 
come, "to  teach  him  the  value  of  money,"  he 
fondly  believed;  and  John  Tyson  had  stood 
between  them,  shielding  Jerry  in  every  possi- 
ble way  with  the  devotion  of  a  loyal  nature. 
Many  a  time  when  matters  had  grown  very 
warm  for  Gerald,  it  was  Jack  who  had  stepped 

45 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

in  and  quietly  covered  affairs  until  the  other 
could  adjust  his  difficulties. 

Tyson  did  this,  not  any  more  for  Jerry,  than 
for  his  father,  for  whom  he  possessed  a  sincere 
and  profound  affection.  It  had  come  to  be  a 
cherished  aim  with  him  that  Sunderland  should 
never  discover  that  his  idol  was  made  of  clay. 
"It  would  break  his  heart  if  he  knew,"  Tyson 
said  to  himself  again  and  again.  And  so 
George  Sunderland,  loving,  dreaming  father, 
moved  ever  through  a  fool's  paradise. 

As  he  sat  to-night  by  the  fire-light,  a  shade 
crossed  his  fine  face.  With  a  perturbed  air, 
he  drew  from  his  coat  a  letter  he  had  received 
that  afternoon  and  re-read  it  slowly  and 
thoughtfully.  As  he  returned  it  to  his  pocket, 
he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  sparkling  flames  be- 
fore him  and  murmured  with  a  half  sigh:  "A 
bad  business — a  bad  business." 

What  did  he  see  in  the  firelight  ?  The  depths 
of  a  vast  forest;  a  huge  camp-fire;  great  logs 
bursting  with  flame;  a  shower  of  sparks  flung 
upward  toward  the  gloom  of  the  overhanging 

46 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

pines;  a  thin,  dark,  sinewy  figure  in  back- 
woodsman's dress  cooking  a  venison  steak  over 
a  nest  of  live  coals ;  another  figure — lithe,  slim, 
young,  with  a  face  like  a  wild  flower  and  the 
soft  appealing  eyes  of  a  startled  deer.  "A  bad 
business,"  repeated  Sunderland,  as  he  poked 
the  fire  vigorously,  thus  banishing  the  visions 
which  disturbed  him. 

There  was  a  sudden  rustle  of  silk  at  the  door 
and  a  lady  came  in  hurriedly — a  lady  like  a  bit 
of  Dresden  china,  with  a  charming  face  and 
tiny,  girlish  figure.  Although  the  waves  of 
hair  under  her  Paris  hat  were  white  as  snow, 
her  cheeks  were  pink  as  sweetbriar,  and  her 
blue  eyes  had  all  the  candor  and  ingenuousness 
of  a  child.  And,  indeed,  in  many  respects, 
Dorothea  Adriance  was  as  much  of  a  child  as 
her  daughter. 

"Now  do  not  say  one  word,  George,"  she 
began  in  a  great  flutter.  "I  know  I  am  fright- 
fully late.  How  I  shall  have  to  rush!  But  I 
was  so  fascinated  with  the  shops;  and  oh, 

47. 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

George,"  showing  her  empty  purse,  "I  have 
spent  all  my  money." 

Sunderland  had  risen  at  her  entrance  and 
stood  smiling  down  with  his  wonderful  eyes  at 
the  pretty,  piquant  face.  "Why,  what  a  spend- 
thrift you  are  coming  to  be,  Dorothy,"  he 
laughed. 

"Yes,  New  York  always  demoralizes  me," 
she  cried.  "I  simply  throw  my  money  right 
and  left.  Isn't  it  outrageous?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Sunderland, 
regarding  Mrs.  Adriance  admiringly.  "I  be- 
lieve that  every  one  should  do  what  best 
agrees  with  one.  And  shopping  assuredly 
agrees  with  you.  I  never  saw  you  look  pret- 
tier, Dorothy." 

"Oh,  my  dear  friend,"  cried  Mrs.  Adri- 
ance, dimpling  and  expostulating,  "at  your 
age " 

"Why,  one  would  think  I  was  Methuselah," 
retorted  Sunderland.  "Indeed,  I  want  you  to 
understand  I  am  just  as  young  as  I  was  twen- 

48 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

ty-five  years  ago.  Do  you  remember,  Dot?" 
He  took  her  hand  gently  in  his. 

"Do  I  remember?"  cried  the  pretty  woman, 
in  charming  confusion.  "Yes,  yes,  of  course  I 
remember.  But  really,  George,  I  must  run 
away  now  and  dress.  I  shall  keep  you  all  wait- 
ing." She  caught  up  her  gloves  and  purse, 
and,  like  a  startled  bird,  fluttered  out  of  the 
room. 

Sunderland  looked  after  her  with  a  tender 
smile  and  then  returning  to  his  seat,  fell  to 
musing  again  before  the  fire.  Presently  he 
was  roused  by  Gerald,  who  came  in  not  quite  so 
airily  as  was  his  usual  custom.  "Good-evening, 
governor,"  he  said.  His  voice  had  a  strained 
note. 

"Ah,  my  boy,"  affectionately  returned  his 
father,  giving  him  his  hand;  "how  are  you  to- 
night?" He  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  look  of 
pride  which  quickly  changed  to  one  of  conster- 
nation. "What  upon  earth  has  happened  to 
your  face?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  dad,"  said  Jerry.  "Don't  be 
49 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

alarmed.  I  got  a  deuce  of  a  knock  just  now, 
running  into  my  wardrobe  door." 

George  rose,  and,  adjusting  his  pince-nez, 
looked  closer  at  Jerry's  face.  "Have  you 
broken  the  skin?"  he  asked.  "It  is  shockingly 
inflamed.  Looks  deucedly  ugly.  You  had 
best  bathe  it  at  once." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  dad,"  replied  Jerry,  uneas- 
ily. "Do  not  bother  about  it."  He  lit  a  cigar- 
ette with  an  air  of  unconcern,  although  his  hand 
shook  a  trifle.  "Jack  hasn't  shown  up  yet,  has 
he?"  he  added,  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  strolling  lazily  up  and  down  the  room. 

"Is  Jack  coming?"  inquired  his  father. 

"Yes,  he  was  here  an  hour  or  so  ago.  I  in- 
sisted on  his  dining  with  us.  He  went  home  to 
dress,"  replied  Gerald. 

"He  has  not  come  yet,"  said  Sunderland. 

"Well,"  said  Jerry,  consulting  the  tiny  gold 
clock  on  the  mantel,  "he  wants  to  hustle  if  he's 
going  to  be  on  time." 

"Oh,  there  is  no  hurry,"  rejoined  Sunder- 
land. "We  shall  dine  rather  late  to-night. 

50 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Mrs.  Adriance  has  just  come  in  and  we  must 
wait  for  her." 

Jerry  turned  and  regarded  his  father  with  a 
smile  full  of  meaning.  "So  dinner  must  wait 
for  Mrs.  Adriance?"  he  said,  laughingly.  "Ah, 
governor,  you're  hard  hit.  I  never  knew  you 
to  wait  dinner  a  moment  before." 

Sunderland  was  a  trifle  embarrassed.  "You 
must  remember,"  he  said,  "Mrs.  Adriance  is 
our  guest." 

"Yes,"  retorted  Jerry,  "and  we  have  had 
hundreds  of  guests  in  our  time.  Did  dinner 
wait  for  them?  No,  no,  you  sly  old  boy !"  He 
gave  his  father  a  jocular  dig  in  the  ribs. 

Sunderland  looked  at  his  son  before  speak- 
ing. He  seemed  to  be  measuring  him.  "Ger- 
ald, I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you,"  he 
finally  said,  and  his  handsome  face  flushed  like 
a  school  girl's. 

"I  knew  it  was  coming!"  declared  Gerald, 
raising  both  hands  in  mock  despair. 

"Jerry,"  went  on  his  father,  growing  more 
51 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

embarrassed,  "what  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that 
I  am  thinking  of  marrying  again?" 

Gerald  laid  both  hands  on  his  father's  shoul- 
ders. "Governor,  you  would  not  surprise  me 
in  the  least,"  he  answered. 

"I  would  not?"  queried  his  father,  amazed  at 
his  reply. 

"No,  you  dear  old  chap,"  cried  his  son. 
"Why,  I've  seen  this  coming  for  weeks  and 
have  been  bracing  for  the  shock." 

"You  would  not  object?"  his  father  anxious- 
ly asked. 

"I  object?"  exclaimed  Jerry.  "Not  at  all, 
my  dear  governor.  You  need  a  mistress  for 
your  home.  Mrs.  Adriance  is  a  charming 
woman  I  should  be  delighted." 

Sunderland  shook  his  son's  hand  warmly. 
6  My  dear  boy,"  he  cried,  "you  have  lifted  a 
weight  from  my  mind.  I  feared  you  might 
not  like  the  idea." 

"I  like  anything  that  pleases  my  dear  old 
dad,"  returned  Gerald,  with  an  appreciative 
glance.  "Besides,  after  I  am  gone  I  should  not 

52 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

wish  you  to  be  lonely."  He  looked  slyly  at  his 
father  to  discover  the  effect  of  his  words. 

"After  you  are  gone!"  his  father  repeated 
with  a  puzzled  air.  "Why,  where  are  you  go- 
ing?" 

"Going  to  get  married — ha,  ha,  papa!"  re- 
plied Gerald  with  levity. 

"Married!"  cried  Sunderland  in  consterna- 
tion. "You?  To  whom?  Oh,  do  not  tell  me, 
Jerry,  that  you  wish  to  marry  Trixy  Evans!" 

Gerald  started.  "Marry  Trix?"  he  demand- 
ed. "I'd  sooner  marry  the  devil.  Why,  I  say, 
dad,  whatever  put  such  an  astounding  idea  as 
that  in  your  head?" 

"You  have  been  her  devoted  cavalier  for  so 
long,"  Sunderland  quickly  replied.  "I  have 
seen  you  everywhere  dancing  attendance  on 
her.  At  first — thinking  it  was  only  one  of 
your  flirtations — I  paid  no  attention.  But  lat- 
terly, I  confess,  my  dear  boy" — he  looked 
steadily  at  his  son,  who  directly  lowered  his 
gaze — "I  have  been  very  much  concerned  about 
you.  Jerry,"  he  added,  his  tone  growing  seri- 

53 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

ous,    "Beatrice   drove   Lionel   Evans   to   his 
grave." 

"Well,  governor,"  said  Gerald,  "don't  you 
worry  any  more  on  that  score.  Trix  is  a  good 
chum,  well  enough  to  toddle  around  with — 
but  marry!  Gad!"  putting  his  hand  to  the 
scarlet  welt  disfiguring  his  cheek,  "I  should 
just  as  soon  think  of  marrying  a  Kansas  cy- 
clone." 

"There  goes  another  load  off  my  shoulders," 
exclaimed  his  father.  "I  only  wish  I  had  spo- 
ken to  you  before.  But  tell  me,  Jerry,  who  is 
the  girl?" 

"Why,  dad,  cannot  you  guess?" 

"No,  Jerry." 

"It  is  Lily,"  Gerald  said,  closely  watching 
his  father's  face. 

Sunderland  was  very  much  affected.  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  spoke.  "Lily — Lily," 
he  murmured,  "that  sweet  child — whom  I  al- 
ready love  as  my  own!  Jerry,  my  boy,  do  you 
realize  how  happy  you  are  making  me?  Are 
you  to  marry  her?" 

54 


"I  hope  so,  dad,"  Gerald  responded  with  all 
sincerity.  "I  spoke  to  her  not  an  hour  ago. 
She  was  shy  and  ran  away.  But  I  am  confi- 
dent she  is  fond  of  me  and  she  wishes  to  please 
you  and  her  mother." 

"Lily — to  be  my  daughter,"  said  Sunder- 
land,  meditatively.  "Jerry,  I  have  always 
longed  for  this  in  my  heart,  but  I  never 
dreamed  that  a  child  like  her  would  attract  you. 
You  have  always  fancied  dashing,  worldly 
women." 

"Fancied!"  repeated  Gerald.  "Yes,  dad, 
that's  the  word.  Only  fancied.  I  love  Lily. 
There  is  a  world  of  difference.  I  want  her.  I 
must  have  her." 

"Well,  go  in,  my  dear  boy,  and  win,"  cried 
Sunderland.  His  eyes  shone,  his  noble  face 
radiated  happiness  as  he  affectionately  pressed 
his  son's  hand — the  son  who  was  to  make  his 
name  honored  among  men.  He  sank  back  in 
his  chair  and  gazed  with  a  smile  in  the  fire.  No 
visions  therein  troubled  him  now. 

He  saw  instead  his  adored  son  with  the 
55 


STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

beautiful  girl  he  had  so  wisely  chosen  and  with 
their  children  clustering  about  them.  Steadily 
up  rose  the  lofty  palace  of  fancy  he  was  so 
carefully  building.  Not  a  premonition  of  the 
hand  that  might  destroy  it  with  one  wanton 
sweep  crossed  his  mind.  The  tiny  cupids,  that 
upheld  the  splendid  mirror  above  the  mantel, 
flushed  rosy  in  the  firelight — but  the  satyr 
crowning  the  gorgeous  frame  looked  down  at 
him  with  an  evil  leer. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"Foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's  eyes." 

"MR.  TYSON,"  announced  Thomas,  sweep- 
ing back  the  portieres.  Jack  entered,  his  splen- 
did proportions  showing  to  advantage  in  fault- 
less evening  dress.  "Ah,  Jack,  old  chap," 
cried  Gerald,  "I  was  just  beginning  to  think 
you  had  given  us  the  slip." 

"I  am  late,  I  know,"  responded  Tyson,  as  he 
took  the  cordial  hand  Sunderland  extended. 
"You  will  pardon  me,  Mr.  Sunderland.  But 
the  condition  of  the  streets  and  I  think  the 
slowest  cab  horse  I  ever  struck  must  be  my 
excuses.  Hello,  Jerry!  what's  happened  to 
your  cheek?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing,"  replied  Gerald  in 
57 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

confusion.    "I  hit  it  just  now — bang!  against 
my  dressing-table " 

"The  wardrobe  door,  you  mean,"  corrected 
his  father. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  returned  Gerald,  still 
more  embarrassed.  "To  be  sure — the  ward- 
robe door.  What  am  I  thinking  about?" 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Jack,  with  an  air  of 
concern,  "I  hope  it  has  not  gone  to  your  head. 
You  seem  a  trifle  irrational." 

"That's  on  account  of  the  confidences  the 
governor  has  just  been  making  me,"  cried  Ger- 
ald with  assumed  gaiety.  "I  assure  you,  noth- 
ing else." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Tyson,  laughingly,  "as  a 
rule  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  Jerry's 
cheek " 

"Oh,  oh!"  from  Gerald. 

"So  we  will  hope  for  the  best — eh,  Mr.  Sun- 
derland?"  concluded  Tyson. 

"He  certainly  has  never  lacked  any,"  as- 
sented Sunderland,  smiling  indulgently  at  the 
two  young  men. 

58 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"Especially,"  added  Tyson,  slyly,  "where 
women  are  concerned.  And  speaking  of  the 
ladies,  whom  do  you  think  I  saw  en  route?  I 
passed  Trix  Evans  in  her  victoria,  and  never 
did  I  see  so  absolutely  livid  a  face.  I  saluted 
her.  She  stared  at  me  with  the  eyes  of  a  corpse. 
What  could  have  happened?" 

"Perhaps  she  has  lost  a  fortune,"  suggested 
Sunderland.  "She  is  forever  dabbling  in 
stocks." 

"Or  a  lover,"  said  Gerald  in  a  strange  voice. 

"Well,  by  George!"  returned  Tyson.  "In 
that  event  I  should  not  care  to  be  the  man  in 
the  case." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Gerald,  still  in  a  con- 
strained tone. 

"Because  Beatrice  Evans  is  not  an  ordinary 
woman,"  replied  Tyson.  "Milk  and  water  do 
not  flow  in  her  veins.  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
the  tigress  about  her.  She  should  have  lived 
in  a  jungle  and  devoured  men." 

"You  think  she  would  revenge  herself?"  Ger- 
59 


aid  inquired.  As  he  spoke  his  hand  involun- 
tarily pressed  the  stinging  welt  on  his  face. 

"Yes,"  said  Tyson;  "and  I  could  swear  that 
it  would  be  in  some  appallingly  novel  fashion." 

"Well,"  said  Sunderland,  suddenly  aban- 
doning his  posture  of  lazy  content  and  sitting 
bolt  upright,  "I  wish  I  could  discover  some  ap- 
pallingly novel  form  of  punishment." 

"Hello,  dad!"  cried  Jerry,  staring  at  his 
father.  "What's  wrong  with  you?  Some- 
body squeezed  you  on  copper  to-day?" 

"No;  but  I  have  heard  something  which  has 
infuriated  me  and  makes  me  long  to  inflict  a 
severe  penalty  on  the  scoundrel  who  entices  a 
young  girl  from  an  honest  home."  Gerald 
gave  an  almost  imperceptible  start  and  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  his  father  as  if  hypnotized. 

"Jerry,"  Sutherland  went  on,  "do  you  re- 
member that  pretty  little  daughter  of  Job  Wil- 
son's, up  in  the  Adirondacks  ?" 

"Yes."  Gerald  breathed  the  word  rather 
than  spoke  it.  "Why?" 

Sunderland  turned  to  Tyson,  who  sat  with 
60 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor.  "Wilson's  is  the 
camp  where  I  have  gone  for  fifteen  years,"  he 
explained.  "Why,  I  watched  that  girl  grow 
up  from  a  baby — a  little  thing  toddling  about 
the  camp.  A  beautiful  child  she  was."  He 
paused,  reminiscent. 

"Well?"  It  wras  Jerry's  voice,  tense  and 
hard,  that  broke  the  stillness. 

"She  is  here  in  New  York,"  continued  Sun- 
derland.  He  drew  the  letter  from  his  pocket. 
"Gone  wrong,  I  fear,  from  what  Wilson  writes 
me.  I  had  this  letter  from  him  to-day.  Poor 
Wilson!  he  is  heart-broken.  He  says:  'My 
girl,  my  little  Kitty,  is  somewhere  in  New 
York,  living  God  knows  how.  She  disap- 
peared two  years  ago,  just  after  you  were  last 

here ' '      Mr.  Sunderland  broke  off,  and, 

lifting  his  eyes  from  the  letter,  looked  over  at 
his  son.  "You  remember,  Jerry — summer  be- 
fore last — when  we  went  up  there  together?" 
He  paused  for  an  answer. 

"Yes — I  remember,"  Jerry  managed  to  ar- 
ticulate. 

61 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Sunderland  read  on:  "  'I  looked  everywhere 
for  her,  but  could  not  find  her.  It  killed  her 
mother — she  died  last  fall.  One  of  my  neigh- 
bors, Frank  Homer,  has  just  come  back  from 
New  York,  and  he  swears  he  saw  Kitty  in  a 
carriage  on  Fifth  Avenue,  dressed  up  like  a 
queen.  For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Sunderland,  help 
me  to  find  my  child.' '  Sunderland  folded  the 
letter  and  put  it  carefully  back  in  his  coat. 
Then  he  spoke  deliberately,  as  if  weighing 
every  word :  "If  money  can  find  Job  Wilson's 
daughter,  she  shall  be  restored  to  her  father." 

"I  do  not  see,"  began  Gerald,  "why  you 
should  trouble  yourself " 

"Trouble  myself!"  ejaculated  Sunderland 
with  much  indignation.  "Is  that  my  son  speak- 
ing? I  am  amazed  at  you,  Jerry.  I  will  do 
what  any  honorable  man  would.  I  will  find 
that  girl  and  put  her  back  in  her  poor  old  fa- 
ther's arms."  There  was  a  terrible  silence  in  the 
room.  Then  Sunderland  spoke  more  gently. 
"Jack,  Gerald,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  both  to 

62 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

help  me  in  this  quest.  We  will  consider  ways 
and  means  later." 

Gerald  rose.  His  face  was  ghastly  save 
where  the  symbol  of  his  shame  flared  red  as  a 
burn.  "I  say,  Jack,"  he  spoke  slowly  and  with 
difficulty,  "before  the  ladies  join  us,  come  to 
my  rooms.  I  have  a  new  sporting  print  I  for- 
got to  show  you  this  afternoon.  It's  a  peach." 

Tyson,  with  still  lowered  eyes,  joined  him. 
As  the  two  passed  out  through  the  door  that 
led  to  Gerald's  apartments,  he  staggered  like 
a  drunken  man,  clutched  at  Tyson's  arm  and 
whispered:  "For  God's  sake,  Jack,  what  shall 
I  do?"  "Hush!"  was  the  only  answer  his 
friend  vouchsafed,  while  he  laid  his  hand  mean- 
ingly upon  the  other's  shoulder. 

Sunderland,  left  alone,  resumed  his  cigar  and 
his  meditations.  Deeply  engrossed  as  he  was, 
he  did  not  hear  a  light  footfall  behind  him  nor 
the  soft  swish  of  a  chiffon  gown.  A  pair  of 
velvety  hands  were  presently  pressed  against 
his  eyes,  and  subdued,  sweet  laughter  rippled 
above  him.  "It's  you,  little  tease,"  he  cried. 

63 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"I  know  those  finger  tips."  He  drew  Lily 
quietly  around  by  both  hands.  She  perched 
upon  the  arm  of  his  chair  as  a  bird  upon  a 
bough  and  rested  her  cheek  against  his  white 
head.  "How  has  my  little  girl  been  to-day?" 
he  asked,  with  more  than  his  accustomed  ten- 
derness. "Have  you  amused  yourself?" 

"Oh,  guardie,  dear,"  replied  Lily,  "I  have 
had  such  a  beautiful  day.  I  went  to  the  flower 
show  this  morning,  and  I  lunched  at  Del's. 
Then  Jerry  and  I  had  such  a  glorious  canter 
in  the  park  and  then  we  came  home  and  then — 
and  then "  She  faltered  and  paused. 

"And  then?"  pressed  her  guardian. 

"Oh,"  returned  Lily,  mischievously,  "I  think 
I  won't  tell  you." 

"You  are  having  secrets  from  your  old 
guardian?"  inquired  Sunderland. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am,"  she  murmured,  giving 
the  top  of  his  head  a  dainty  little  kiss. 

"Lily,"  said  Sunderland,  after  a  silence  of  a 
few  moments,  "do  you  know  that  I  am  a  mind 
reader?" 

64 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"Mercy!    No!"  she  cried  in  mock  dismay. 

"Well,  I  am,"  Sunderland  returned,  "and  I 
can  read  exactly  what  is  now  passing  in  your 
mind.  You  are  saying  to  yourself:  'Shall  I 
tell  guardie  that  Jerry  wishes  to  marry  me?' ' 

"Oh,  oh!"  cried  the  girl  with  a  little  scream. 
"However  did  you  know?" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  a  mind  reader?" 
asked  Sunderland,  with  a  well  simulated  air  of 
sincerity. 

"Ah,  I  know,"  cried  Lily,  laughing  and  giv- 
ing his  ear  an  affectionate  tweak.  "Jerry  told 
you.  I  think  that  is  very  unfair  of  Jerry.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  myself."  She  pouted  de- 
liciously. 

"Ah,  Lily,  dear,"  returned  her  guardian 
gently,  "what  difference  who  brings  me  such 
good  news?" 

"Do  you  think  it  good  news?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Lily,"  responded  Sunderland,  gravely,  "do 
not  you  know  that  I  love  you  as  well  as  if  you 
were  my  own  child?" 

"Yes,"  cried  Lily,  impulsively  embracing 
65 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

him;  "y°u  have  always  been  like  a  father  to 
me." 

"It  has  been  the  desire  of  my  heart  that  you 
and  Jerry  should  love  each  other." 

"Has  it,  indeed?"  asked  the  girl,  a  slight 
shade  coming  over  her  fair  face. 

"And  it  would  delight  your  mother  as  well," 
continued  Sunderland. 

"Do  you  think  that,  guardie?"  The  shadow 
was  still  there  on  the  young  face. 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  We  have  often  talked  of 
it,"  replied  Sunderland. 

Lily  drew  a  long  sigh  and  spoke  thoughtful- 
ly. "Nothing  would  make  me  happier  than  to 
make  you  two  dear  people  happy,"  she  said. 

Her  guardian  drew  her  closer  to  him.  "Lily, 
you  are  a  sweet  child,"  he  said. 

Lily  was  silent  a  few  moments.  She  sat  still 
on  the  arm  of  Sunderland's  chair,  gazing  stead- 
ily in  the  firelight.  If  in  its  glowing  embers 
she  saw  a  vague  vision  of  a  passing  romance — 
something  so  fine,  so  sweet,  so  intangible  that 
she  could  give  it  no  name — she.  made  no  sign. 

66 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

She  could  not  have  defined  the  emotion  Tyson 
had  aroused  within  her.  Their  acquaintance 
had  been  absolutely  conventional.  A  few 
words,  a  visit  or  two,  a  cluster  of  violets.  What 
did  such  trifles  signify?  And  yet,  as  his  stal- 
wart figure,  his  strong,  kind  face,  his  eyes  full 
of  authority  and  earnestness,  rose  suddenly  be- 
fore her,  a  sharp  pain  gripped  her  heart.  She 
put  this  vision  resolutely  away,  as  she  an- 
swered: "Guardie,  dear,  why  should  I  not  wish 
to  please  you  and  mamma?  Never  did  girl 
have  so  kind  and  indulgent  a  guardian  as  you 
have  been.  I  do  not  remember  that  you  have 
ever  denied  me  one  wish.  As  to  dear  little  mam- 
ma !  Well,  she  is  mamma — that's  all.  I  ought 
to  be  willing  to  die  for  you  both." 

"Do  not  talk  of  dying,  child,"  Sunderland 
said  quickly.  "We  want  you  to  live  to  be  a 
joy  for  us.  We  wish  to  live  again  in  you  and 
Jerry." 

"Well,"  said  Lily,  suddenly,  "I  suppose  I 
shall  have  to  marry  some  one.  It  might  as  well 
be  Jerry  as  anybody." 

67 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Oh,  my  dear  child,"  cried  her  guardian, 
quite  shocked  by  this  candid  statement.  "Do 
not  take  that  attitude.  Do  not  you  love 
Jerry?" 

"Why,  of  course;  I  love  Jerry  dearly,"  she 
responded.  "But  I  do  not  know  much  about 
this  marriage  business.  Will  I  love  him  after 
I  am  married,  do  you  think?"  she  naively 
asked. 

"If  you  love  Jerry  now,  you  will  love  him 
more  then,"  responded  Sunderland.  As  he 
spoke,  Mrs.  Adriance  entered  the  room.  See- 
ing the  two  in  earnest  conversation,  she  paused 
on  the  threshold  a  moment.  "But,  Lily,  do  not 
make  any  mistake,"  Sunderland  was  saying. 
"Look  well  in  your  heart.  It  is  so  easy  to  spoil 
one's  life."  He  rose  with  a  sigh  and  stood  be- 
fore the  fire,  looking  steadfastly  down  at  the 
dainty  creature  about  whom  all  his  hopes  cen- 
tered. 

She  rose,  too,  and  stood  directly  before  him. 
"Guardie,"  she  said  musingly,  "I  have  often 
wondered  why  you  never  married  again.  Your 

68 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

tie  isn't  on  straight.  Let  me  fix  it  for  you,  you 
big,  careless  boy."  She  adjusted  his  tie  with  a 
pretty  air  of  responsibility. 

"The  reason  is  simple,"  he  returned.  "The 
woman  I  had  loved  all  my  life  was  married." 

"How  lovely!"  cried  Lily. 

"Lovely?"  repeated  Sunderland,  astonished. 

"I  mean  how  romantic,"  corrected  Lily. 
"Tell  me  more,"  she  begged,  with  great  in- 
terest. 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell,  child,"  her  guard- 
ian went  on  slowly.  "I  loved  her  when  she 
was  just  your  age — and  just  your  height — and 
had  just  such  eyes — soft — blue — tender.  They 
used  to  look  at  me  just  as  yours  do.  But  she 
did  not  love  me." 

"How  stupid  of  her,"  judged  Lily  with 
great  disdain. 

"She  loved  my  best  friend  better  and  mar- 
ried him.  Then  after  a  time  I  married.  My 
wife  only  lived  a  year,  as  you  know.  But  I 
couldn't  marry  my  old  sweetheart  even  then. 

69 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

You  know,  Lily,  it's  only  in  story-books  that 
old  sweethearts  come  together." 

"Is  her  husband  still  living?"  asked  the  girl 
suddenly. 

"No,  she  is  a  widow  now,"  rejoined  her 
guardian. 

"Then  why  do  you  not  marry  her?"  demand- 
ed Lily.  Mrs.  Adriance  hastily  withdrew  to 
the  hall. 

"I  don't  know  whether  she  would  marry 
me,"  smiled  Sunderland. 

"Well,  you  can  ask  her,"  persisted  Lily. 

Sunderland  burst  into  laughter.  "So  I  can, 
child,"  he  cried,  adding  determinedly — "and 
will." 

Mrs.  Adriance  came  in  now,  calling  to  an- 
nounce herself.  "I  am  coming.  It's  a  per- 
fect shame  to  keep  you  waiting  so  long.  So 
tiresome  of  me.  Do  tell  me,  George,  I  am  for- 
given." Sunderland  looked  at  her  and  marked 
her  flushed  face,  and  a  suspicious  moisture 
about  her  blue  eyes.  How  much  had  she  heard 
of  his  confidences  ?  he  wondered  as  he  took  her 

70 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

hand  and  smiled  at  her.  "There  is  nothing  I 
would  not  forgive  you,  Dorothy,"  he  said  in 
a  low  voice. 

Lily  saw  the  look  and  heard  the  words. 
"Good  gracious,  it's  mother!"  she  said  to  her- 
self, and,  in  a  great  flutter  at  her  sudden  dis- 
covery, took  herself  off  to  the  conservatory, 


CHAPTER  VII 

"Upon  such  sacrifices,  my  Cordelia, 
The  gods  themselves  throw  incense." 

SUNDERLAND  led  Mrs.  Adriance  to  a  chair 
by  his,  and  said  as  he  seated  himself:  "Doro- 
thy, the  most  astounding  and  delightful  thing 
has  just  happened.  I  am  so  happy  I  can 
scarcely  contain  myself.  What  do  you  think? 
Jerry  has  asked  Lily  to  marry  him." 

"Yes,"  cooed  the  little  Dresden  china  lady. 
"So  she  has  just  told  me.  Of  course  you  know, 
my  dear  old  friend,"  she  added,  laying  a  tiny 
hand  loaded  with  gems  gently  upon  Sunder- 
land's  arm,  "that  nothing  would  delight  me 
more." 

Sunderland  patted  the  little  hand  with  an 
appreciative  nod.  "Yes,  I  understand  that  we 
are  in  perfect  accord  in  this.  But  I  am  a  little 

72 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

bit  troubled,"  he  continued,  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible shade  vexing  his  splendid  face.  "Lily 
does  not  seem  to  be  as  much  in  love  with  Ger- 
ald as  he  is  with  her." 

The  pretty  lady  laughed — a  rippling,  melo- 
dious laugh,  like  the  murmur  of  water  over 
pebbles.  "Why,  my  dear  George,"  she  gaily 
replied,  "that  is  exactly  as  it  should  be.  The 
woman  should  always  be  the  one  who  is  loved, 
not  the  one  who  loves.  Besides,"  she  concluded 
sagely,  "Lily  is  only  a  child.  She  will  love 
Jerry." 

"Then  she  will  accept  him?"  eagerly  ques- 
tioned Sunderland. 

"Why,  of  course,"  returned  her  mother. 
"She  is  going  to  tell  him  as  soon  as  she  sees 
him." 

"My  dear  Dorothy,"  Sunderland  cried, 
bending  toward  her  with  love  in  his  eyes,  "now 
there  is  only  one  thing  more  that  I  wish  to  com- 
plete my  absolute  contentment  with  life,  and 

that  is "    He  paused  a  moment,  his  eyes 

searching  the  pretty  pink  face. 

73 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"That  is?"  repeated  Mrs.  Adriance,  with  a 
suspicion  of  coquetry  which  by  no  means  ill 
became  her;  "that "  She,  too,  paused. 

"Ah,  Dorothy,  you  know,"  he  began  in- 
tensely. But  Gerald  and  Tyson  came  in  at 
this  inauspicious  moment  and  poor  Sunder- 
land's  confession  was  again  delayed. 

Both  young  men,  advancing,  saluted  Mrs. 
Adriance,  who  received  them  like  a  very  stately 
little  queen.  As  Tyson  bent  over  her  hand 
with  his  finest  manner,  Lily  came  in  from  the 
conservatory,  idly  swinging  a  long,  white  suede 
glove  in  her  hand.  "See  what  I  found  in  the 
conservatory,"  she  called  with  glee.  "I  declare 
it's  Trixy  Evans'  glove,"  she  added  as  she 
sniffed  daintily  at  it.  "It  smells  just  like  her — 
all  trefle  and  sandal  wood." 

"Has  she  been  here  to-day?"  asked  Sunder- 
land  in  surprise. 

"Yes,"  Lily  answered  carelessly.  "She  was 
here  late  this  afternoon,  but  as  I  was  dressing 
I  did  not  see  her,  for  when  I  came  down  she 
was  gone.  Jerry  saw  her,  though.  Why,  Jer- 

74, 


ry,"  she  hurriedly  added,  catching  sight  of 
Jerry's  disfigured  cheek,  "whatever  has  hap- 
pened to  your  face?" 

Jerry,  already  obviously  uneasy,  caught  Ty- 
son's eyes  fixed  with  meaning  upon  him.  The 
latter  was  quick  enough  to  connect  the  welt  on 
Jerry's  face  with  the  visit  of  Beatrice  Evans, 

With  considerable  perturbation  Gerald  re- 
plied :  "Nothing — nothing,  I  assure  you,  Lily. 
I — "  he  stumbled,  "I  met  with  a  trifling  acci- 
dent." 

"Nothing?"  the  girl  answered,  going  nearer 
him  and  regarding  the  ugly  mark  with  a  pity- 
ing air.  "Why,  it's  something  appalling.  That 
hideous  red  mark!  Oh,  you  should  have  some 
hot  arnica — or,  let  me  see,  witch  hazel  is 
good " 

"Really,  Lily,"  objected  Gerald,  "it's  noth- 
ing worth  fussing  about.  Don't  bother." 

"Bother?"  repeated  his  sweetheart.  "Mam- 
ma, do  you  see  poor  Jerry's  face?  Fancy  I  if 
he  should  take  cold!" 

"Oh,  hang  it  all!"  cried  Gerald,  driven  to 
75 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

desperation.  "Let  my  face  alone.  Forgive 
me,  Lily,  but  every  one  has  made  such  a  hue 
and  cry  over  a  little  matter " 

"Jerry,  dear,  it  is  not  a  little  matter,"  Lily 
interrupted  in  a  shocked  tone.  "Why,  it  is 
dreadful!  How  did  it  happen?" 

"I  was  swinging  clubs  and  one  of  them 
slipped "  He  finished  with  a  comprehen- 
sive gesture. 

His  father,  engaged  in  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Adriance,  did  not  hear  this  last  explana- 
tion of  his  son,  but  the  astute  Tyson  smiled 
grimly.  "The  dressing-table — the  wardrobe 
door — Indian  clubs,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"I  wonder  which  is  the  truth?  And  I  further 
wonder,  whether  there  is  any  connection  be- 
tween this  awful  face  of  Jerry  and  that  other 
awful  face  I  saw  staring  from  Trix  Evans' 
victoria." 

"I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  dear,"  Lily  mur- 
mured compassionately  to  Jerry. 

He  lifted  his  hot,  passionate,  boyish  face. 
"Lily,"  he  whispered,  his  eyes  flaming,  "you 

76 


THE  STUFF   OF   DREAMS 

are  adorable.  Tell  me,  when  am  I  to  have  your 
answer,  sweet?" 

"Now,"  replied  the  girl  ingenuously. 

"Xow?    Lily "  he  panted. 

"Yes,  Jerry,"  she  calmly  answered.  "I  have 
decided  to  marry  you." 

"My  darling!"  he  rapturously  exclaimed. 
"Ah,  why  are  we  not  alone?" 

The  two  stood  by  the  open  fire.  The  others, 
some  distance  away,  were  chatting  idly  of  this 
and  that.  Lily  did  not  look  at  her  lover  but 
stood  smoothing  and  toying  with  the  glove  of 
Beatrice  Evans.  She  laid  it  on  the  mantel 
just  under  the  satyr's  head,  and  stretched  out 
each  slender  finger  with  mechanical  precision. 
"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I  have  talked 
it  over  with  mamma  and  guardie  and  both  are 
so  pleased.  They  think  it  an  excellent,  yes, 
an  admirable  arrangement." 

A  less  material  man  than  Gerald  Sunderland 
would  not  have  been  content  with  this  ac- 
ceptance. But  Jerry  thought  only  of  possess- 
ing this  beautiful  girl.  He  suddenly  laid  his 

77 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

hand  upon  hers.  "Lily,"  he  murmured.  His 
eyes  gloated  upon  her  exquisite  face.  "Ah!" 
He  recoiled.  "Throw  away  that  glove — do  not 
soil  your  hands  by  touching  it." 

"Why,  Jerry,"  she  returned  with  wide-eyed 
wonder,  "it  is  not  dirty."  She  suddenly  lifted 
it  and,  without  warning,  held  it  to  his  nose. 
"Does  it  not  smell  exactly  like  Trix?"  she 
asked. 

The  welt  on  his  face  glowed  dark  red  as  he 
snatched  the  glove  from  her  hand  and  flung 
it  in  the  fire,  where  it  shriveled  to  a  shapeless 
thing,  the  fingers  writhing  in  the  flames  and 
quivering  piteously,  as  if  begging  for  mercy. 
"What  a  child  you  are!"  he  said,  in  a  strange, 
hoarse  voice.  "In  the  midst  of  accepting  my 
devotion,  you  thrust  that  thing  in  my  face." 

"That  thing?"  Lily  laughed.  "Why,  Jerry, 
it  was  only  a  month  ago  I  saw  you  kiss  Trix's 
glove  in  the  most  rapturous  fashion." 

"Where?"  Jerry  was  considerably  taken 
aback  by  this  statement. 

"At  the  Whitehouse  ball,"  she  returned. 
78 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"You  were  in  the  conservatory  with  Trix.  You 
kissed  her  hand  and  then  you  turned  back  her 
glove  and  kissed  her  wrist.  Oh,  fie!  oh,  fie!" 
she  rippled,  shaking  an  accusing  finger  at  him. 

"Do  not  remind  me  of  past  follies,  Lily," 
Gerald  begged,  quite  disconcerted  by  this  re- 
hearsal of  his  indiscretion.  "They  are  over, 
I  assure  you.  My  devotion  is  yours  alone — - 
forever.  I  am  going  to  announce  our  engage- 
ment now,"  he  added. 

"Oh,  no,  no — not  now!"  cried  the  girl,  sud- 
denly growing  pale. 

"Yes,  now,"  he  persisted.  "Why  not?  Here 
are  your  mother,  my  father,  and  my  dearest 
friend.  They  will  all  be  delighted." 

"Oh,  I  would  prefer  not,  Jerry,"  Lily  said 
faintly,  much  distressed.  But  Jerry  paid  no 
heed  to  her  protestations.  He  dismissed  them 
airily  as  mere  signs  of  maidenly  embarrass- 
ment. He  led  her  triumphantly  across  to  the 
others,  with  the  mien  of  a  conquering  hero. 
"Mrs.  Adriance — father — Jack,"  he  gaily 
cried,  "congratulate  me!  I  am  the  most  for- 

79 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

tunate  chap  in  New  York  to-night.  Miss 
Adriance  has  just  promised  to  be  my  wife." 

The  elders  turned  with  radiant  faces  and 
outstretched  hands.  Jack  Tyson  stood  as  if 
turned  to  granite.  The  blow  was  so  sudden,  so 
absolutely  unexpected,  he  could  not  speak. 
With  an  inward  sickening  shudder,  he  saw  the 
long  train  of  horrors  stretching  before  the  af- 
fianced pair;  his  own  pain  he  counted  as  noth- 
ing to  that  in  store  for  this  girl  whom  he  loved, 
and  whom  he  would  have  shielded  with  his  life 
from  even  the  knowledge  of  evil.  That  Ger- 
ald, steeped  in  intrigue  and  pressed  by  perils — 
the  legitimate  results  of  his  life — should  for 
one  moment  aspire  to  the  hand  of  a  pure  girl, 
and  that  girl  the  beloved  ward  of  his  father, 
was  a  piece  of  effrontery  of  which  Tyson  had 
not  dreamed  him  capable.  Jack  had  caught  no 
word  of  the  rumors  that  had  reached  the  keen 
ears  of  Adelaide  Flornoy,  and  therefore  the 
announcement  of  the  betrothal  was  a  thunder 
clap  in  his  ears. 

Mechanically  he  moved  forward  to  offer  his 
80 


THE   STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

congratulations — but  paused.  No,  that  he 
could  not  do.  He  would  not  stultify  his  man- 
hood to  that  extent.  Mrs.  Adriance  and  Sun- 
derland  were  kissing  and  embracing  Lily,  and, 
from  this  maelstrom  of  satisfaction  and  joy, 
Tyson  managed  to  dexterously  swim,  without 
attracting  the  attention  of  the  others. 

"Are  you  pleased,  mamma?"  Lily  asked  with 
a  certain  pitiful  anxiety. 

"My  child,  I  am  delighted,"  replied  her 
mother. 

"And  you — guardie?"  she  questioned,  still 
with  that  strange,  anxious  little  look. 

"My  daughter!"  was  all  Sunderland  could 
say  as  he  took  her  to  his  heart.  Jerry  stood  by 
during  this  amiable  exchange  of  amenities, 
preening  himself  like  a  brilliant  peacock.  He 
had  got  his  way — he  was  satisfied. 

As  Thomas  solemnly  announced  that  din- 
ner was  served,  the  party  fell  into  line.  Mr. 
Sunderland  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Adriance, 
Jerry  took  his  prize,  and  Tyson  brought  up  the 
rear,  alone,  stupefied,  enraged.  A  white  rose 

81 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Lily  wore  at  her  belt  dropped  from  its  place 
unheeded.  Its  brittle  stem  had  been  snapped 
in  the  transmitting  of  many  embraces.  Jerry 
carelessly  trod  it  under  foot  and  crushed  it. 
But  Tyson  saw  it,  stooped,  caught  it  up  and 
hastily  thrust  it  into  his  breast. 


82 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"Here  I  and  Sorrow  sit." 

A  GIRL  stood  looking  out  the  window  in  an 
uptown  apartment  at  the  driving  rain.  The 
room  behind  her  was  charmingly,  even  luxuri- 
ously furnished,  with  its  appointments  indicat- 
ing good  taste,  if  somewhat  floridly  displayed. 
There  were  perhaps  too  many  hangings  and 
cushions  of  Oriental  silks  and  other  flimsy 
stuffs.  There  were  more  pictures  of  startling 
subjects  than  are  commonly  found  in  a  draw- 
ing-room. The  air  was  heavy  with  a  curious 
mingling  of  odors — burned-out  joss  sticks, 
cigarettes,  sandalwood,  and  dying  roses.  One 
longed  to  throw  open  the  windows  and  let  the 
cold,  damp  air  sweep  through.  Through  a  cur- 
tained doorway  one  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  long 
dining-room,  a  cabinet  of  gay  china,  a  buffet 

83 


covered  with  silver,  and  a  sideboard  littered 
with  syphons  of  seltzer  and  vichy,  decanters  of 
brandy  and  bottles  of  whiskey. 

The  two  rooms,  as  far  as  could  be  seen,  had 
a  decided  laissez-aller  air  about  them.  One 
would  have  known  instinctively  that  this  was 
not  the  retreat  of  an  ascetic.  Rooms  usually 
speak  for  themselves,  and  these  had  a  language 
of  their  own. 

The  girl  at  the  window  was  as  slim  and  lithe 
as  a  panther,  with  the  soft,  brown  eyes  of  a 
deer.  She  was  very  pale  and  showed  traces  of 
a  recent  illness.  She  was  enveloped  in  a  costly 
kimono  of  pink  crepe,  heavily  embroidered  with 
gold  humming  birds  and  purple  violets.  Thick 
masses  of  burnished  copper-tinted  hair  were 
caught  together  with  a  certain  rough  pictur- 
esqueness.  But  the  tawdry  robe  and  the  damas- 
cened hangings  and  the  litter  of  brandy  and 
vichy — yes,  even  the  composite  scent  of  the 
rooms,  seemed  strangely  at  variance  with  this 
cold,  sad  girl  who  leaned  against  the  window 
and  stared  hopelessly  out  at  the  falling  rain. 

84 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

She  was  absorbed  in  her  own  despairing 
thoughts.  The  ceaseless  drip  of  the  rain  upon 
the  stone  pavement  beat  a  threnody  which 
pierced  her  heart.  She  looked  away  and  be- 
yond the  interminable  vista  of  roofs  and 
steeples  and  saw  a  dense  forest.  She  heard  the 
rushing  of  the  wind  through  the  trees,  sound- 
ing the  advent  of  the  storm.  She  saw  moun- 
tains veil  their  heights  with  white  mists,  and 
lakes  lash  their  blue  waters  into  a  frenzy  of 
foam.  And  the  rain!  It  came,  pattering  first 
upon  the  leaves  like  the  stealthy  footfalls  of 
the  wild  things  of  the  forest,  then  faster  and 
faster  it  ran  through  all  the  aisles  of  the  woods 
crying  out  to  the  thirsty  trees:  "I  am  coming 
— I  am  coming!"  Now  came  the  tremendous, 
steady,  white  downpour,  drenching  the  ground, 
the  crash  of  thunder,  the  play  of  the  fork- 
tongued,  serpentine  lightning  among  the  black 
boughs,  and  the  wild  shriek  of  the  furious  blast. 
The  wilderness  tossed  its  arms  in  madness  to 
the  sky  and  moaned  aloud.  And  at  this  terrific 
clash  of  the  elements,  the  girl's  soul  exulted. 

85 


She  was  in  it  and  of  it.  She  loved  it.  She 
longed  to  rush  forth  into  the  forest,  to  clasp 
the  trees  in  her  arms,  to  ride  upon  the  wings 
of  the  air.  And  suddenly  she  realized  where 
she  was — caught,  trapped,  shut  up  in  a  New 
York  apartment,  in  a  nest  of  cushions  and  per- 
fume and  golden  embroidery. 

With  a  moan,  she  clasped  her  hands  over  her 
eyes  and  pressed  her  aching  head  against  them. 
The  heavy  scent  of  the  room  grew  hateful  to 
her.  Oh,  the  perfume  of  the  pines  after  the 
rain!  If  she  could  but  once  more  smell  that 
pungent  odor.  And  oh,  the  soft  fall  of  the  re- 
maining raindrops  on  the  branches,  as  the  trees 
readjusted  themselves  after  the  tempest;  the 
twitter  of  the  birds  as  they  came  forth  from 
their  nests  to  talk  it  over — could  she  but  hear 
them.  She  listened  feverishly.  Alas!  all  she 
heard  was  a  cab  horse  pounding  the  slippery 
pavement  with  his  hoofs,  and  the  bang  of  the 
cab  door  as  it  stopped  before  the  building. 

She  leaned  there  in  a  sort  of  lethargy,  until 
she  was  roused  by  the  ring  of  the  electric  bell 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

at  the  door  of  her  apartment.  A  moment  later, 
a  buxom  mulatto  girl  in  trim  cap  and  apron 
came,  smiling  and  obsequious.  She  could  not 
bear  that  offensive  smile.  Ah !  if  she  would  but 
look  angry  or  sorry — anything  but  that  greasy, 
secret,  knowing  smirk.  There  were  frantic 
moments  when  she  longed  to  shriek  aloud: 
"Don't  smile  at  me !  Don't — I  cannot  bear  it !" 
One  of  these  moments  was  upon  her  now;  but 
as  the  maid  said  with  unction:  "A  lady  to  see 
you,  Mrs.  Dudley,"  she  gasped  with  amaze- 
ment. "A  lady,"  she  repeated,  "to  see  me? 
There  must  be  some  mistake."  For  never  be- 
fore since  she  had  first  entered  these  rooms  had 
a  woman  called  upon  her. 

"No,"  replied  the  girl;  "she  asked  for  you. 
She's  mighty  swell,  too,"  she  added  with  relish. 

"But  I  can't  see  her — I  am  not  dressed,"  the 
girl  said,  dully  wondering  why  any  one  should 
visit  her. 

"Nevah  you  min',"  returned  the  maid.  "You 
look  grand  in  this  yeah  gown.  Bettah  not  keep 

87 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

her  waitin'.  Somehow  she  don't  look  like  she's 
used  to  bein'  kep'  waitin'." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  girl  listlessly,  "let 
her  come  in." 

Presently  there  was  the  swish  of  silk  in  the 
passageway  and  a  woman  entered,  wrapped  in 
a  voluminous  coat  and  carrying  a  gold-mount- 
ed lorgnette  in  her  hand,  through  which  she 
icily  stared  at  the  girl. 

"Is  this  Miss  Dudley?"  she  asked;  and  her 
voice  seemed  to  sting  the  girl  like  a  whiplash. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Dudley,"  she  returned,  with  a 
certain  native  dignity.  "Will  you  sit  down?" 

Beatrice  Evans  sank  into  a  chair,  giving  one 
sweeping,  comprehensive  glance  about  the 
room.  In  that  glance  she  saw  everything — the 
free  and  easy  disorder,  the  array  of  bottles — 
yes,  even  a  photograph  on  the  writing-table  of 
a  fair  man  with  an  habitual  sneer  on  his  short 
upper  lip.  She  clenched  her  lorgnette  writh  a 
hand  that  quivered  to  throttle  something,  and 
for  a  moment  she  did  not  speak.  "Mrs.  or  Miss 
Dudley,"  she  said  in  a  contemptuous  voice,  "it 

88 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

matters  little.  I  have  come  here  to  do  you  a 
good  turn." 

The  girl  looked  curiously  at  the  hard,  hand- 
some face  and  the  eves  that  burned  like  coals 

V 

of  fire.  She  marked  the  tense,  drawn  lines 
about  the  thin,  cruel  lips.  She  saw  the  pallor 
of  her  visitor  under  her  rouge  and  wondered 
at  it.  "To  do  me  a  good  turn?"  she  mechanic- 
ally repeated. 

"Yes,"  her  caller  responded;  "and  I  will 
waste  no  time  on  ceremony.  Miss  Dudley,  you 
live  here  alone,"  she  went  on,  as  if  reciting  a 
lesson  she  had  learned  by  heart.  "You  are 
visited  by  a  man  who  is  known  here  as  Mr. 
Dudley,  but  whose  real  name  is  Gerald  Sun- 
derland.  He  is  your  friend — your  protector." 

At  every  word,  as  at  a  blow,  the  unhappy 
girl  quivered  and  cowered  in  her  chair.  Phys- 
ically weak  from  a  dangerous  illness,  she  was 
poorly  equipped  to  withstand  the  shock  of  this 
woman's  speech. 

"You  are  his  mistress,"  the  merciless  voice 
went  on.  "You  fancy,  poor  silly  little  fool, 

89 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

that  he  loves  you!  Well,  I  have  come  to  tell 
you  just  how  much  he  loves  you.  Do  you 
know  that  he  is  to  be  married  within  a  month 

to  a  girl  in  his  own  station "  But  she 

paused,  for  the  slim,  girlish  figure  in  the  gaudy 
pink  kimono  had  slid  slowly  and  heavily  to  the 
floor.  It  lay  now  huddled  in  its  mocking  gold 
embroideries,  limp  and  senseless  at  Beatrice's 
feet. 

"Heavens!"  she  muttered  in  disgust.  "The 
creature  has  actually  fainted.  What  shall  I 
do?  How  awfully  awkward!"  She  looked 
hastily  about.  Then  she  swyiftly  went  into  an 
adjoining  room,  of  whose  pink  and  white  dain- 
tiness she  had  caught  a  glimpse  from  where 
she  sat.  "This  must  be  her  bedroom.  Perhaps 
I  can  find  some  salts "  She  stopped,  petri- 
fied at  what  she  saw. 

Close  by  a  snowy  bed  stood  an  elaborate  bas- 
sinet, covered  with  fluffy,  muslin  draperies 
lined  with  pink.  Under  this  canopy  there 
slept,  like  a  butterfly  in  the  heart  of  a  rose,  an 
exquisite  infant.  One  tiny  hand  was  under 

90 


its  satiny  cheek;  the  other  lay  like  a  crumpled 
rose  petal  on  the  white  silk  coverlid. 

The  woman  stared  down  at  the  child  with 
the  eyes  of  a  Medea.  Her  face  contracted  as 
if  by  a  spasm.  She  moistened  her  parched  lips 
with  her  tongue  and  clutched  her  breast  as  if 
something  therein  were  choking  her.  The  baby 
was  very  tiny — evidently  but  a  few  weeks  old. 
A  train  of  frightful  memories  swept  before  her 
disordered  fancy.  She  suddenly  raised  her 
hands  and  shook  them  impotently  in  the  air. 

She  staggered  out  of  the  room,  past  the  un- 
conscious girl  on  the  floor,  and,  groping  her 
way  into  the  dining-room  and  to  the  sideboard, 
poured  out  a  half  glass  of  whisky  and  drank  it 
greedily.  The  liquor  revived  and  stimulated 
her.  She  poured  out  some  more,  and,  taking  it 
in  her  hands,  returned  to  the  girl.  Kneeling  by 
her,  she  lifted  up  her  head  and  forced  the  drink 
between  her  lips.  Presently,  as  the  girl  began 
to  show  signs  of  returning  consciousness,  she 
raised  her  to  her  feet,  and,  half  leading,  half 
dragging  her,  got  her  to  a  divan. 

91 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

She  crossed  to  the  writing-table,  took  up  the 
photograph  and  sharply  scrutinized  it.  Yes, 
there  was  no  mistaking  that  fair,  treacherous 
face  with  the  bold  eyes  and  disdainful  mouth. 
She  kissed  it  passionately  and  then  flung  it 
from  her  in  a  rage.  Sitting  down  she  scrawled 
a  hasty  note.  "I  am  sorry,"  it  ran,  "to  have 
made  you  so  ill.  But  it  is  right  you  should 
know.  Gerald's  father  is  a  good  man  and  will 
not  permit  an  injustice.  He  is  giving  a  dinner 
to-night  at  which  his  son's  engagement  will  be 
announced.  Go  to  him  and  tell  him  all."  The 
last  word  she  heavily  underscored. 

She  placed  the  note  in  the  hands  of  the  half 
conscious  girl.  Stooping,  she  listened  as  if  to 
reassure  herself  of  her  recovery.  She  heard  the 
slowly  returning  breath,  and,  with  one  pro- 
longed survey  of  the  room,  as  if  she  wished  to 
brand  it  on  her  memory,  she  glided  away  like  a 
splendid  animal  padding  through  the  depths 
of  a  jungle. 

Some  time  after,  the  girl  opening  her  eyes, 
stared  dully  about,  as  if  trying  to  realize  a 

92 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

hateful  dream.  Suddenly  she  saw  the  paper 
in  her  hands.  She  slowly  and  painfully  rose, 
and,  going  over  to  the  window,  read  it  by  the 
fast  declining  light. 

She  read  it  over  and  over.  She  seemed  un- 
able at  first  to  grasp  its  purport.  When  at 
last  the  truth  burned  into  he.r  brain,  she  quiv- 
ered, then  stood  motionless  as  if  changing  to  a 
woman  of  marble.  Her  heart  seemed  to  freeze, 
her  very  breath  to  stop.  Despair — awful,  stony 
despair — settled  upon  her  face  and  held  her 
limbs  in  rigid  bondage. 

A  curious  little  cry  from  her  bedroom  roused 
her.  She  turned,  and  going  swiftly  to  the  side 
of  the  bassinet,  she  lifted  the  drowsy  child,  all 
warm  and  rosy  from  his  nest.  She  clasped  him 
to  her  heart,  she  laid  his  little,  soft  curling  head 
against  her  neck,  she  enveloped  and  covered 
him  with  her  adoration.  The  image  of  despair 
became  a  Mother  of  Sorrow.  For  at  touch  of 
the  child  her  tears  rained  down.  "Oh,  baby! 
oh,  baby!"  she  moaned. 


93 


CHAPTER  IX 

"Jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave." 

THE  library  in  Sunderland's  house  was  his 
favorite  room  and  bore  many  marks  of  his  in- 
dividuality. His  books  were  not  his  possessions 
to  be  flaunted  before  others,  but  were  his  com- 
panions and  friends.  Hence,  they  were  not 
shut  away  to  be  gazed  at  respectfully  through 
glass  doors,  but  stood  on  shelves  and  tables, 
within  easy  reach  of  his  hands.  His  spacious 
Flemish  oak  desk  always  bore  flowers.  To- 
night a  great  cluster  of  lilacs  made  the  room 
sweet  with  the  quaint,  old-fashioned  fragrance 
of  a  country  garden.  A  bright  fire  crackled  on 
the  hearth,  for  the  steady  rain  outside  gave  a 
chill  to  the  air. 

From  the  drawing-room  came  a  confused 
94 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

murmur  of  voices,  a  ripple  of  laughter,  the 
rustle  of  satins,  and  perfume  of  roses,  and, 
mingled  with  this  delightful  melange,  the  low, 
sweet  throbbings  of  violins  and  harps.  Sunder- 
land's  dinner  guests  were  gathering.  He  stood 
in  the  center  of  the  beautiful  white  and  gold 
room,  Mrs.  Adriance,  charming  in  pearl-gray 
gauze,  beside  him,  receiving  the  favored  few 
bidden  to  hear  the  announcement  of  the  be- 
trothal of  his  son  to  the  heiress  of  Tom  Adri- 
ance's  vast  fortune. 

People  sauntered  in  and  out  of  the  library 
and  conservatory,  busy  with  the  news.  It  was 
an  affair,  this  mating  of  Jerry  Sunderland, 
sport,  man  about  town,  heir  of  George  Sunder- 
land's  great  wealth,  with  a  girl  not  out  of  her 
teens,  a  beauty,  and  absolutely  worth  her 
weight  in  gold. 

Among  those  whose  tongues  wagged  freest, 
strolled  Mrs.  Flornoy  with  her  "trailer,"  Bob- 
by Dwyer.  They  found  themselves  in  the  li- 
brary, where  the  mingled  perfume  of  lilacs  and 
Russia  leather,  together  with  the  glow  of  the 

95 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

leaping  fire,  made  an  attractive  nook  for  gos- 
sips. 

"Deuced  shame,  I  say,"  Bobby  was  saying, 
"for  a  rake  like  Jerry  to  carry  off  a  sweet  little 
flower  like  that."  He  nodded  in  the  direction 
of  the  drawing-room. 

"Why,"  eagerly  queried  Mrs.  Flornoy,  her 
green  eyes  sparkling  maliciously,  "is  he  so 
bad?" 

"Jerry?  Well,  I  must  say,"  rejoined  Bobby, 
judicially,  "that  Jerry  is  the  limit — positively 
the  limit.  Nice  chap,  though,"  he  hastened  to 
add,  with  worldly  caution. 

"Pouf!"  replied  Adelaide.  "I  fancy  he  is 
no  worse  than  most  men." 

"Yes,  he  is,"  retorted  Bobby.  "You  sha'n't 
malign  the  sex.  Jerry's  just  been  going  it,  you 
know,  for  the  last  three  or  four  years.  Doing 
the  pace  and  all  that.  Naughty — naughty!" 
he  concluded  with  a  suggestive  leer. 

"How  is  it  his  father  does  not  interfere?" 
questioned  Adelaide. 

"Well,  Jerry  must  be  deucedly  clever,"  Bob- 
96 


THE   STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

by  answered,  "for  he  manages  by  some  hook  or 
crook  to  throw  his  father  off  the  scent.  Then, 
too,  Sunderland  pere  is  so  taken  up  with 
making  money  that  he  pays  no  attention  to  the 
fashion  in  which  Sunderland  fils  is  spending  it. 
Besides,  he  is  such  a  dear  old  chap,  don't  you 
know,  no  one  would  care  to  enlighten  him." 

Mrs.  Flornoy  glanced  cautiously  about. 
"Tell  me,  Bobby,"  she  whispered  behind  her 
tiny  Empire  fan,  "is  it  true  that  Jerry  has  a — 
a — menage  uptown  somewhere?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  yes,"  returned  Bobby.  "Every- 
body knows  about  that." 

"The  outrageous  little  beast!"  cried  Ade- 
laide, virtuously. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  drawled  Bobby. 
"That's  not  so  deuced  uncommon,  Mrs.  Flor- 
noy." 

"I  fancy  not,"  said  that  lady. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no,"  went  on  the  other.  "No 
one  thinks  anything  of  a  little  affair  of  that 
sort.  But  Jerry's  tastes  are  so — er — so  beastly 

97 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

universal,  don't  you  know?"  he  delicately  fin- 
ished. 

Mrs.  Flornoy  gave  a  significant  laugh,  then, 
after  a  little  pause  intended  to  express  her  em- 
barrassment at  Bobby's  bold  statement,  re- 
sumed: "Trix  takes  it  better  than  I  would 
have  thought." 

"I  fancy  now,  Trix  really  intended  to  mar- 
ry Jerry — eh — what?"  questioned  Bobby. 

Mrs.  Flornoy  shrugged  her  white  shoulders. 
"Well,  as  to  that!"  she  said.  "You  see,"  she 
added  with  infinite  malice,  "Trix  is  not  a  mar- 
rying man." 

Bobby  shouted  at  this  witticism.  "But  she 
wanted  Jerry  to  carry  her  fan?"  he  slowly 
asked. 

"Yes,"  returned  Adelaide,  very  knowingly; 
"and  to  purr  for  her." 

"Purr?"  repeated  Bobby. 

"Yes — tame  cat,  you  know."  Adelaide 
smiled. 

"Oh,  fudge!"  cried  Bobby,  with  a  pretense 
98 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

of  being  highly  shocked  at  his  companion's  in- 
discreet remarks. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Flornoy,  rising,  "her  tame 
cat  has  turned  and  clawed  her  with  a  venge- 
ance." 

"Yes,  poor  Trix!"  sighed  Bobby.  "I'm 
deuced  sorry  for  her,  don't  you  know?"  He 
grinned  like  an  ape. 

"You  look  it,"  retorted  Adelaide. 

"My  features  are  so  expressive,"  he  said, 
"they  always  betray  me." 

"I  wonder,"  pondered  Adelaide,  "will  Miss 
Adriance  ever  find  him  out?" 

"Oh,  well,"  returned  Bobby,  "so  long  as  she 
doesn't,  it's  all  right." 

"Yes,"  rejoined  his  companion,  "the  eleventh 
commandment  is  the  only  one  we  have  to  re- 
gard nowadays." 

"The  eleventh?"  queried  Bobby,  offering  his 
arm.  "Deuce  take  me  if  I  thought  there  were 
but  ten." 

Mrs.  Flornoy  ran  her  hand  through  his  arm. 
"Well,  Bobby,"  she  murmured,  smiling  wick- 

99 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

edly,  "this  one  has  come  in  vogue  since  you 
left  Sunday  school." 

"And  it  is "  questioned  Bobby. 

"  'Thou  shalt  not  be  found  out,'  "  replied  his 
friend.  Her  shrill,  metallic  laughter  echoed 
mockingly  through  the  room  as  they  took  their 
way  back  to  join  the  other  guests. 

Beatrice  Evans  had  just  arrived,  and  every 
eye  was  turned  upon  her  as  she  swept  forward 
to  greet  her  host.  Her  manner  was  that  of 
hectic  animation.  She  carried  herself  with  more 
than  her  customary  arrogance,  and  her  eyes 
glittered  wickedly  as  they  rested  on  the  be- 
trothed pair.  She  made  her  congratulations 
with  over-effusion,  kissing  Lily  on  both  cheeks. 
As  she  extended  her  hand  to  Gerald,  their  eyes 
met.  He  gave  her  one  prolonged,  insolent 
stare  and  his  face  flushed  darkly.  She  smiled 
scornfully  and  lowered  her  gaze  significantly 
to  the  white  seam  across  his  face.  "Lily,  dear," 
she  purred,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you  a  few  mo- 
ments. Can  you  spare  her,  Jerry,  for  five 
minutes?" 

100 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Now  what  the  devil  is  she  up  to?"  Jerry 
thought.  But  he  coldly  replied:  "Miss  Adri- 
ance  is  free  to  do  as  she  pleases,  Mrs.  Evans." 

"Come,  then,  dear,"  Beatrice  urged,  holding 
out  her  hand  to  the  girl,  who,  nothing  loath, 
took  it.  The  two  crossed  the  drawing-room  to- 
gether. 

Beatrice  was  a  head  taller  than  Lily,  who 
was  by  no  means  deficient  in  stature.  The  two 
formed  a  startling  contrast  in  every  way. 
Beatrice's  vivid  scarlet  crepe  and  chiffon  gown 
suited  her  audacious  air  and  haughty  face.  The 
band  of  diamonds  which  held  her  bodice  over 
one  white  shoulder  sparkled  as  evilly  as  her 
vindictive  eyes.  Upon  her  breast  scarlet  pop- 
pies rose  and  fell.  She  seemed  the  incarnation 
of  fire  and  deviltry.  The  other,  a  trifle  pale, 
was  an  ice  maiden  in  her  soft  white  draperies, 
caught  here  and  there  with  virginal  rose  buds. 
She  wore  white  roses  upon  her  girlish  breast, 
and  a  priceless  string  of  pearls — Gerald's  gift 
— about  her  pretty  throat. 

"Trixy  dear,"  she  said  as  the  two  entered  the 
101 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS, 

library,  "I  never  saw  you  look  so  outrageously 
handsome  as  you  do  to-night.  You  throw  poor 
little  me  quite  in  the  shade.  Now  do  you  think 
that  is  very  nice  of  you  when  I  am  supposed 
to  be  the  star  of  the  occasion?" 

Beatrice  paused  by  Sunderland's  desk  and 
fixed  her  eyes  gloomily  upon  the  girl.  "I 
suppose  you  are  very  happy?"  she  said  in  a 
strange  voice. 

"Of  course,"  Lily  replied  demurely.  "Is  not 
every  girl  happy  when  she  is  engaged  ?" 

"Then  you  are  really  in  love  with  Gerald?" 
Beatrice  spoke  with  difficulty. 

"Well,  as  to  that,  Trixy,"  Lily  lightly  re- 
turned, "I  cannot  say.  You  see,"  she  went  on 
candidly,  "I  have  had  so  little  experience.  I 
had  always  fancied  that  when  a  girl  is  in  love 
she  is  quite  delirious.  But  I  am  not  one  bit 
upset,"  she  added,  as  if  disappointed. 

The  woman  took  a  step  or  two  nearer  her. 
"Lily  Adriance,"  she  eagerly  muttered,  "I  do 
not  believe  you  know  what  it  is  to  love.  Bah! 

you  are  only  a  baby " 

102 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"I  am  seventeen,  Trixy  Evans!"  Lily  indig- 
nantly interrupted. 

"Yes,  but  your  eyes  are  not  opened  yet," 
Beatrice  went  on.  Her  voice  sounded  thin  and 
cracked.  "Tell  me,"  she  panted,  "do  you  al- 
most swoon  from  happiness — when — when 
Gerald  kisses  you?"  It  seemed  she  could 
scarcely  articulate  the  question. 

"No,"  said  Lily,  carelessly,  wondering  at 
Beatrice's  emotion.  "No ;  I  only  wish  he  would 
not  bother  me." 

"Does  your  blood  leap  through  your  veins 
— does  your  heart  beat  to  suffocation  when  you 
hear  his  voice — his  step?"  The  woman's  eyes 
closed — she  half  reeled  and  caught  at  the  back 
of  a  chair. 

Lily  was  listening  delightedly,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  big  jar  of  lilacs.  "Now,  Trix,"  she  sud- 
denly exclaimed,  "that  is  precisely  the  way  I 
thought  I  ought  to  feel.  That  is  the  way  the 
heroines  talk  in  all  the  novels  I  ever  read.  And 
I  must  confess  I  have  been  disappointed  be- 
cause I  do  not  feel  that  way.  But,"  she  in- 

103 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

genuously  concluded,  "I  spoke  to  mamma 
about  it  and  she  said  it  was  not  at  all  necessary. 
So  I  took  her  word  for  it." 

Beatrice  caught  her  by  the  arm.  "Lily," 
she  breathed,  "you  do  not  love  Gerald.  Oh,  it 
is  monstrous  that  you  should  marry  him!" 

"Monstrous!"  echoed  the  girl. 

"Yes,"  stormed  the  woman,  "monstrous — in- 
famous! Lily,  listen.  I  like  you,  child — I  do 
not  wish  to  pain  you.  Go  in  there  now,"  point- 
ing wildly  to  the  drawing-room,  "call  your 
mother  aside,  tell  her  that  you  have  changed 
your  mind — reconsidered — that  you  do  not  love 
Gerald — that  you  will  not  marry  him.  Don't 
let  this  engagement  be  formally  announced  to- 
night." 

Lily  drew  back,  amazed.  "Trixy,  dear,  have 
you  taken  leave  of  your  senses?"  she  asked. 
"Why,  how  could  I  break  my  word?  How 
could  I  bring  pain  and  sorrow  to  my  mother 
and  my  dear  guardian?  You  do  not  realize 
what  you  are  saying."  She  quietly  disengaged 
her  arm  from  the  other's  grasp  and  turned 

104 


toward  the  drawing-room  door.  "I  must  go 
back,"  she  said.  "They  will  wonder  what  has 
become  of  me." 

But  like  a  tigress  Beatrice  flung  herself  be- 
fore her.  "Lily,"  she  desperately  cried,  "I  will 
save  you  in  spite  of  yourself.  You  must  not — 
you  shall  not  be  sacrificed  to  that  scoun- 
drel  " 

"Scoundrel!"  cried  Lily,  recoiling  at  the 
hideous  word. 

"Yes.  Gerald  Sunderland  is  not  fit  to  touch 
the  hem  of  your  skirts."  The  woman's  voice 
cracked  in  her  throat.  "He  is  a  wicked  man — a 
beast — a  libertine " 

"How  dare  you  speak  so  to  me  of  my  dear 
brother?"  demanded  Lily,  haughtily. 

Beatrice  stared  wildly  at  her,  then  burst  into 
shrill  laughter.  "Your  brother!"  she  mocked. 
"Ah,  yes,  that  tells  the  whole  story.  You  only 
love  him  as  you  might  a  brother.  In  your  heart 
you  do  not  care  for  him  as  a  husband " 

Lily  drew  herself  up  like  an  outraged  queen. 
"But  he  is  to  be  my  husband,"  she  said  with 

105 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

dignity.  "And  I  will  not  allow  you  or  any  one 
else  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  him." 

Beatrice  looked  at  her  white,  mutinous  face 
for  an  instant.  She  saw  only  an  intense  dis- 
dain of  herself  and  her  words.  She  smiled 
satanically.  "Oh,  very  well — very  well!"  she 
mocked,  "have  your  own  way.  But  do  not  for- 
get when  the  crash  comes  that  I  tried — I  tried 
to  save  you."  She  turned  and  rushed  through 
the  doorway.  The  heavy  curtains  fell  behind 
her. 

Lily  stood  bewildered,  trying  to  collect  her- 
self, to  recall  her  last  words.  "When  the  crash 
comes,"  she  repeated  with  an  effort.  "What 
crash?  What  does  she — what  did  she  mean  by 

all  the  dreadful  things  she  said?  What " 

Her  sweet  voice  broke.  Frightened,  distressed, 
she  sank  upon  the  nearest  chair  and  rested  her 
head  upon  her  hands.  Jerry  a  wicked  man? 
What  ugly  name  was  that  she  called  him? — a 
libertine!  Oh,  what  did  it  all  mean?  Was  this 
her  engagement  dinner  to  which  they  had  all 
looked  forward  with  so  much  anticipation? 

106 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

When  she  had  hoped  to  experience  the  joy  she 
had  not,  she  confessed,  thus  far  found? 

The  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  They  dropped 
down  upon  her  white  roses  and  the  frosted  laces 
on  her  sweet  young  breast.  How  could  Trixy 
say  such  cruel 

The  curtains  were  suddenly  parted  and  a 
man  looked  in.  For  one  instant  he  paused. 
Then,  with  a  smothered  exclamation,  he  en- 
tered, carefully  closing  the  draperies  behind 
him.  He  stopped  again  as  if  irresolute,  then, 
with  a  decisive  air,  went  toward  the  weeping 
girl.  "Miss  Adriance,"  he  murmured,  looking 
intently  at  her,  "are  you  ill?" 

It  was  Tyson. 


ior 


CHAPTER  X 

"What  is  honor?    A  word.     What  is  in  that  word 

honor  ? 
What  is  that  honor  ?    Air !" 

LILY  lifted  her  head  and  made  a  brave  at- 
tempt to  wipe  away  her  tears.  "No,  no!"  she 
faintly  murmured.  She  looked  so  unhappy, 
so  alarmed  and  so  pitifully  young,  that  Tyson's 
heart  contracted  and  every  muscle  within  him 
was  strained  to  its  utmost  tension. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
find  you  here  alone — disturbed.  Oh,  no  de- 
nial!" he  added,  as  Lily  shook  her  head. 
"There  are  tears  in  your  eyes.  Tell  me,  who 
has  grieved  you?" 

Lily  rose  and  assumed  an  air  of  gaiety. 
"You,  sir,"  she  cried  banteringly. 

"I  ?"  repeated  Tyson,  bewildered. 
108 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Yes,"  Lily  went  on,  giving  a  furtive  little 
dab  at  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  "Tell 
me  why  is  it  that  you  alone  of  all  Gerald's 
friends  have  not  congratulated  me?"  Jack 
turned  sharply  away  from  her  and  made  no 
answer. 

Lily  waited  a  moment,  watching  him  keenly. 
What  did  it  mean?  Did  he,  too,  know  some- 
thing he  was  keeping  from  her?  Were  they 
all  in  league  against  her?  she  thought  with 
some  bitterness.  "Come,  sir,"  she  urged,  "I 
insist  upon  a  reply."  She  was  close  beside 
him  now,  her  sweet  presence  filling  him  with 
vague  desire.  He  turned  and  looked  at  her. 
She  saw  his  face  white  and  tense.  She  marked 
his  clenched  hands,  his  restrained  manner.  She 
shrank  back  a  trifle  terrified  at  something  new 
and  unknown  in  his  searching  eyes.  "How 
can  I  congratulate  you,"  he  said  in  a  low,  con- 
strained voice,  "when  my  heart  is  breaking?" 

"Your  heart — breaking?"  the  girl  repeated 
tremulously. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  still  trying  to  hold  him- 
109 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

self  in  check;  "do  you  think  it  is  nothing  to 
me  to  stand  idly  by  and  see  you  given  to  an- 
other man?" 

"But — but — why  not?"  she  stammered. 
"You  did  not  love  me." 

The  veiled,  unconscious  reproach  in  her  voice 
sent  the  blood  to  his  head.  "Love  you?"  he 
cried,  and  forgot  all  else — the  time,  the 
place,  his  honor,  all — save  that  she  stood  there 
before  him  in  her  exquisite  beauty,  her  soft 
eyes,  dewy  from  her  unshed  tears,  fixed  im- 
ploringly on  him.  "Love  you?  Good  God! 
I  have  loved  you  from  the  first  moment  I  saw 
you — a  radiant  being  to  whom  I  scarcely  dared 
lift  my  eyes — a  child  I  did  not  wish  to  alarm. 
I  was  content  to  wait,  while  you,  like  a  butter- 
fly, tried  your  wings,  trusting  that  in  time  you 
might  flutter  back  to  me.  Oh,  forgive  me!" 
He  suddenly  recalled  himself.  "I  did  not  mean 
to  speak."  He  bowed  his  head  and  humbly 
waited  for  the  storm  of  reproaches  he  made 
sure  must  follow  his  rash  declaration. 

"Oh — whjr" — he  heard  her  breathe  almost 
110 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

unconsciously — "why — did  you  not — speak  be- 
fore?" 

He  rushed  to  her,  his  soul  shouting  in  tri- 
umph. She  shrank  back  at  his  face,  her  whole 
attitude  one  of  appeal.  "Lily,  Lily!"  he  pant- 
ed. "My  God,  Lily,  do  you  know  what  you 
are  saying?  Look  at  me,  I  implore  you.  Oh, 
do  not  be  frightened  of  me,  child — I  will  not 
touch  you.  But  tell  me,  do  you  mean  what 
you  say?" 

The  sweet  face,  half  terrified  at  the  storm 
about  her,  the  averted  eyes,  the  color  mounting 
like  a  flag  of  surrender,  the  lips  parting  in  a 
faint  "Yes"  told  their  own  story.  Tyson's 
hungry  eyes  fastened  upon  her  lovely  face. 
For  one  moment  the  primitive  savage  instincts 
were  loosened.  He  had  a  wild  idea  of  snatch- 
ing her  to  him,  of  covering  the  crimson  cheeks 
with  kisses,  of  rushing  away  with  her — some- 
where— anywhere.  Then,  suddenly  realizing 
that  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  the  betrothed  of 
his  friend,  he  pulled  himself  together.  But  he 
stooped  and  lifting  the  fold  of  her  white  gown 

111 


THE  STUFF   OF   DREAMS 

touched  it  reverently  with  his  lips,  murmur- 
ing: "My  love — oh,  my  love!" 

Lily  sank  into  a  chair  and  looked  down  at 
the  dark  head  bending  before  her.  Never  had 
she  been  so  happy.  How  she  longed  to  touch 
the  thick  hair — to  run  her  ringers  through  it. 
He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
that  shone  with  unsteady  brilliancy.  He 
caught  her  hands  in  his  and  held  them  to  his 
breast,  saying  nothing  for  a  time,  but  looking 
intently  at  her  as  if  he  could  never  get  enough 
of  her  beauty.  "My  love!"  he  whispered  once 
more. 

Lily  gently  withdrew  her  hands.  "Jack," 
she  sighed,  "listen  to  me.  You  say  that  you 
love  me.  Then  you  must  do  something  for 
me.  Tell  me  at  once.  Is  Gerald  a  scoundrel?" 

Tyson  sprang  up  and  stood  staring  at  her 
as  if  she  had  struck  him.  "What — do — you 
mean?"  he  managed  to  reply. 

"Is  he  a  profligate — not  fit  to  touch  me?" 
questioned  the  girl.  "Answer  me,  answer  me. 

112 


THE  STUFF   OF   DREAMS 

Oh,  you  say  that  you  love  me — tell  me  the 
truth." 

"Who  has  told  you  such  things?"  cried  Jack, 
sparring  for  time.  "Ah,"  he  added  on  sud- 
den reflection,  "I  know.  It  was  Beatrice.  I 
saw  her  come  in  here  with  you.  It  is  she,  is  it 
not,  who  has  attempted  to  poison  your  mind 
against  Gerald?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Lily,  wearily;  "it  was  she. 
But  I  will  know  whether  the  dreadful  things 
she  said  were  true.  You  are  Gerald's  close 
friend.  No  one  knows  his  life  better.  You 
must  tell  me." 

"Beatrice  is  a  jealous,  disappointed  wom- 
an  "  began  Tyson. 

"Jealous?"  cried  Lily,  surprised. 

"Yes,  jealous,"  doggedly  reiterated  Tyson. 
"All  the  world  knows  she  is  madly,  hopelessly 
infatuated  with  Gerald.  She  was  sure  he  would 
marry  her.  And  she  has  lost  him." 

"Then  it  is  not  true?"  Lily  asked,  and  there 
was  a  distinct  note  of  despair  in  her  voice. 

Tyson  hesitated  one  moment.  He  had  but 
113 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

to  speak — to  tell  what  he  knew,  and  this  girl 
whom  he  loved  and  who — O  God! — loved  him 
would  be  his.  But  there  was  the  unwritten 
code  of  honor  among  men — that  law  that 
brands  an  informer  as  something  unutterably 
base;  that  sends  a  man  to  Coventry  as  quickly 
and  surely  for  betraying  another's  trust  as  for 
cheating  at  cards — Tyson  could  not  break  that. 
Torn  with  the  conflict,  he  faced  her,  white  as 
death,  squared  his  shoulders  and  lied.  "No, 
Lily,  it  is  not  true,"  he  simply  said. 

She  gave  him  one  fleeting  glance,  one  for- 
lorn, hopeless  little  smile,  and,  without  another 
word,  turned  toward  the  drawing-room. 
Gerald,  coming  in  search  of  her,  drew  back  the 
curtains  just  as  she  reached  the  doorway.  "Ah, 
my  fair  truant,"  he  cried,  "here  you  are!  Why, 
Lily,  dear,  every  one  is  asking  for  you.  And 
here  you  are,  flirting  with  old  Jack.  Take 
care,  or  I  shall  be  frightfully  jealous." 

"Yes,  Jerry,"  she  said  in  a  strange  voice,  "I 
was  just  going  back  to  mamma."  She  went 
quickly  through  the  door  without  one  glance  at 

114 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

him.  But  Gerald  was  in  high  good  humor  at 
finding  her  with  Tyson  instead  of  Beatrice, 
and  did  not  mark  her  remiss  behavior.  "I 
don't  blame  you,  old  chap,"  he  said  to  Jack. 
"She  is  sweet  enough  to  turn  the  head  of  any 
man." 

Tyson,  looking  strangely  white  and  grim, 
spoke  very  quietly.  "Jerry,"  he  said,  "we  have 
been  friends  for  a  long  time " 

Gerald  laughed  debonairly,  and  balanced 
himself  upon  the  edge  of  the  library  table.  "I 
know  I'm  in  for  a  lecture  now,"  he  said,  "so 
I  may  as  well  face  it  like  a  man.  Out  with  it, 
old  chap." 

Tyson  came  a  little  nearer  him.  "In  the 
name  of  God,"  he  solemnly  said,  "break  off  this 
marriage." 

Gerald  sprang  from  the  table  and  faced 
him.  "Have  you  gone  mad?"  he  demanded. 

"No,"  replied  his  friend;  "but  you  have. 
How  dare  you  take  that  innocent,  trusting 
child  as  your  wife?  You  are  inviting  your 

115 


own  ruin.  You  are  rushing  on  destruc- 
tion  " 

"Damn  you!"  Gerald  burst  forth. 

"Hold  on!"  returned  Jack,  steadily.  "Wait 
— I  am  not  through.  Knowing  your  life  as  I 
do,  I  tell  you  I  am  aghast  at  the  situation. 
I  beg,  I  implore  you,  Jerry,  to  stop  before  it 
is  too  late." 

Gerald's  fair  face  was  suffused  with  red. 
The  short  upper  lip  rolled  back  in  a  snarl. 
"How  dare  you?"  He  choked  with  rage. 
"Who  made  you  my  mentor?  Are  you  so 
spotless  yourself  that  you  preach  to  me?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Jack  answered  wearily;  "I  am  not 
setting  myself  up  as  an  exemplar.  We  are 
all  of  us  sinners — smart  sinners,  the  world 
thinks  us.  I  confess  I  have  lived  the  custom- 
ary life  of  the  man  of  the  \vorld  to  a  certain 
degree,  but  I  would  not  do  this  child  this  griev- 
ous wrong  for  all  that  the  universe  con- 
tains  " 

"What  grievous  wrong?"  sneered  Gerald. 

"To  marry  her,  sullied  from  your  in- 
116 


THE  STUFF   OF   DREAMS 

trigues."  Gerald  went  toward  Tyson  threat- 
eningly, but  the  latter  met  him  defiantly. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Kitty?"  he 
asked  in  a  low  voice. 

But  Gerald  had  lost  all  control  of  himself. 
"Don't  you  interfere,"  he  snarled.  "You  need 
not  trouble  yourself  about  Kitty.  I  shall  take 
care  of  her.  Who  knows?  I  may  yet  be  very 
glad  to  go  back " 

But  the  shameful  words  were  not  finished. 
Tyson  seized  Gerald  by  the  throat  and  shook 
him  as  a  dog  shakes  a  rat.  "Gerald  Sunder- 
land,"  he  stormed,  "just  now  I  lied  for  you  to 
Miss  Adriance;  lied  to  save  the  rags  of  honor 
you  have  left.  Before  God  I  bitterly  regret 
that  I  lied  for  such  a  contemptible  cur." 

At  this  moment  Sunderland  entered  the 
room.  He  paused,  petrified  at  the  scene  be- 
fore him.  Then  rushing  between  the  two,  he 
wrenched  them  apart.  "Stop!  stop!"  he  stern- 
ly commanded.  "What  does  this  mean?  Jerry, 
Jack,  have  you  taken  leave  of  your  senses?" 

117 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

They  made  no  answer,  but  stood,  heavily 
breathing,  glaring  at  each  other  like  infuriated 
beasts. 

"What  has  happened?"  demanded  Sunder- 
land.  "How  dare  you  engage  in  a  brawl  here 
• — at  this  time?  Speak!" 

"It  is  all  my  fault,  Mr.  Sunderland,"  Jack 
panted.  "Jerry  enraged  me.  I  lost  my  head." 

Sunderland  looked  at  him  keenly.  He  knew 
Tyson's  cool,  impassive  manner  and  the  self- 
control  upon  which  he  prided  himself.  "You 
do  not  lose  your  head  readily,  Jack,"  he  said. 
"You  must  have  had  great  provocation.  What 
that  was  I  shall  know — but  not  now.  I  desire 
you  both  to  return  at  once  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Conduct  yourselves  as  if  nothing  had 
occurred.  After  my  guests  are  gone,  you  both 
shall  meet  me  here.  Then  I  shall  expect  a 
full  explanation  of  this  outrage." 

The  two  men  silently  obeyed,  Gerald  care- 
fully avoiding  Tyson's  eyes ;  Jack,  frigid,  with 
upright  carriage  and  lofty  head.  Sunderland 

118 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

watched  them  through  the  doorway,  noted 
their  respective  attitudes,  and  turned  with  a 
profound  sigh,  as  Thomas  approached  him 
from  the  hall,  bearing  a  note  on  a  trajr. 


119 


CHAPTER  XI 

"Hark  to  the  hurried  question  of  despair !" 

SUNDEKLAND  mechanically  took  the  note 
from  the  man  and  opened  it.  He  read  it  ab- 
sently at  first,  then,  with  a  little  start,  very 
carefully.  "Who  brought  this?"  he  suddenly 
asked. 

Thomas  noted  that  his  master's  face  had 
grown  ashen  and  that  his  hands  were  trembling. 
"A  young  woman,  sir,"  Thomas  said  deprecat- 
ingly.  "I  told  'er  as  'ow  you  was  busy  with 
guests.  But  she  would  not  take  'no'  for  an  an- 
swer. A  matter  of  life  hand  death,  sir,  she  said. 
She  seems  delicate  hand — hand  'alf  fainting, 
sir."  He  coughed  apologetically.  The  temerity 
of  the  young  person  had  really  been  appalling. 

Sunderland  glanced  at  the  clock.  "I  can 
120 


give  her  five  minutes,"  he  said  somewhat 
brusquely.  "You  may  show  her  in."  Thomas 
bowed  disapprovingly  and  went  out  to 
fetch  the  unwelcome  guest.  Sunderland  had 
glanced  again  at  the  hastily-scrawled  note. 
"Dear  Sir,"  it  ran.  "I  beg,  I  implore  you  to 
see  me.  It  is  a  matter  touching  your  honor — 
your  son.  Do  not  refuse  me." 

The  gay  music  tinkled  in  from  the  hallway 
where  an  orchestra,  hidden  in  a  palm  bower, 
was  discoursing  sweet  melody ;  the  silvery  bab- 
ble of  women,  the  rustle  of  chiffons  and  the 
faint  odor  of  violets  and  roses  floated  through 
the  curtained  doorways.  It  was  an  hour  de- 
lightful to  the  soul  of  any  man  who  loves  the 
refinements  of  life — especially  so  to  this  man 
to  whom  the  time  meant  far  more  than  the 
mere  physical  pleasure  of  dining.  It  was  the 
moment  that  was  bringing  the  culmination  of 
his  dreams.  His  fair  palace  of  fancy  was  up- 
reared.  He  stood,  key  in  hand,  ready  to  throw 
it  open  for  the  inspection  of  his  world. 

But  mingling  with  his  dreams  came  the  rat- 
121 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

tie  of  the  rain  driving  heavily  against  his  li- 
brary windows.  A  wild  blast  shrieked  mock- 
ingly outside.  Something — a  premonition — a 
presage  of  evil  suddenly  shook  him.  "Your 
honor — your  son."  Dully  he  repeated  the 
words,  meantime  staring  at  the  paper  in  his 
hands. 

Thomas  opened  the  door  and  ushered  in  a 
girl  of  eighteen.  Slight,  delicate,  with  a  proud 
little  head  set  like  a  deer's  upon  graceful  shoul- 
ders and  with  soft,  brown  eyes  that  looked 
pitifully,  appealingly,  at  the  handsome,  state- 
ly man  before  her.  "Mr.  Sunderland?"  she 
faintly  murmured. 

Sunderland  put  up  his  hand  as  if  to  brush 
the  cobwebs  of  memory  from  his  eyes.  What 
was  there  about  this  intruder  that  should  bring 
before  him  the  waft  of  pines  and  the  dim,  cool 
depths  of  a  vast  forest?  "That  is  my  name," 
he  said  with  cold  formality.  "And  yours?" 

"I  am  known  as  Kitty  Dudley,"  the  girl 
managed  to  articulate.  She  grew  white  as 
death.  Her  extreme  pallor  was  remarked  by 

122 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Sunderland,  who  pushed  a  chair  forward,  and 
spoke  rather  more  kindly.  "Miss  Dudley, 
won't  you  sit  down?" 

The  girl  dropped  wearily  in  the  chair  and 
closed  her  eyes.  For  one  moment  she  felt  as 
if  she  were  dying.  Then  remembering  the 
desperate  errand  that  had  forced  her  here,  by 
sheer  strength  of  will  dragged  herself  back  to 
consciousness.  "Miss  Dudley" — the  voice  of 
Sunderland  sounded  very  far  away — "I  am 
giving  a  dinner,  as  my  man  doubtless  told  you. 
I  could  not  have  seen  you  had  not  your  note 
been  so  importunate.  Will  you  kindly  state 
your  business?" 

"A  dinner  at  which  you  are  to  announce 
your  son's  engagement?"  the  girl  stammered. 

Sunderland  looked  keenly  at  her.  "Yes," 
he  said;  "but  I  confess  I  cannot  understand 
of  what  possible  interest  that  is  to  a  stranger." 

"I  am  no  stranger  to  your  son,  sir,"  inter- 
rupted Kitty. 

"Indeed!"  Sunderland  said  coldly;  "and  is  it 
123 


to  tell  me  that,  Miss  Dudley,  you  are  detain- 
ing me  from  my  guests?" 

The  girl  gave  a  despairing  little  cry.  "Mr. 
Sunderland,"  she  begged,  "hear  me — I  implore 
you.  I  am  so  wretched.  I — I — love  your  son, 
sir " 

"Miss  Dudley,"  said  Sunderland,  rising  as 
if  to  end  the  interview,  "that  is  your  misfor- 
tune. I  fancy  many  women  have  loved  my 
son " 

"But,  oh,  sir,"  cried  the  girl  in  desperation, 
rising,  too,  and  facing  him  with  outstretched, 
pleading  hands,  "he  ought  not  to  marry  this 
young  lady.  It  is  I  whom  he  should  marry." 
There  was  a  terrible  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  pelting  of  the  rain  against  the  windows, 
the  murmur  of  voices  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  the  long-drawn,  exquisite  opening  bars  of 
Schubert's  Serenade  from  the  hall. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  the  white-faced  man 
sternly  demanded.  "What  claim  have  you  on 
my  son?" 

124 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"He  has  lived  with  me  for  two  years,"  mur- 
mured the  half-fainting  girl. 

"Oh,  this  is  shameful!"  Sunderland  said  in 
low,  tempestuous  tones.  "How  dare  you 
malign  my  son?  I  will  not  listen  to  another 
word."  He  turned  away  in  icy  rage.  His 
hand  was  outstretched  to  the  electric  button  to 
summon  his  man.  But  the  girl,  staggering 
forward,  fell  upon  her  knees.  "Mr.  Sunder- 
land," she  sobbed,  "have  pity,  have  mercy  on 
me.  Once  I  was  just  as  good  and  innocent  as 
this  j^oung  lady.  What  I  am  your  son  has 
made  me.  Is  it  right  he  should  desert  me?" 
She  fell  prone  on  her  face  in  an  agony  of  shame 
and  grief. 

The  father  stood,  his  hand  on  the  bell,  look- 
ing down  at  the  wretched  girl.  "So,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  cut  her  like  a  knife,  "you  are  my 
son's  mistress." 

"Oh!"  she  moaned,  her  face  in  her  hands. 
"If  loving  him  with  all  my  heart;  if  sacrificing 
myself  for  him;  if  being  the  mother  of  his 

125 


child  make  me  so — then  I  am  indeed  that 
shameful  thing." 

The  mother  of  his  child!  At  these  words, 
which  seemed  torn  from  a  quivering,  palpi- 
tating soul,  Sunderland  gave  a  great  start.  He 
still  steadily  regarded  the  prostrate  girl  at  his 
feet,  but  the  hard,  stern  look  on  his  handsome 
face  was  slowly  changing  to  one  of  commisera- 
tion. "So  there  is  a  child,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  trembled. 

"A  little  boy — only  four  weeks  old,"  sobbed 
the  girl. 

Sunderland  hesitated.  All  the  forces  of  his 
strong  nature  grappled  and  shook  and  tore 
him.  They  stripped  from  him  the  last  shreds 
of  his  proud  selfhood.  His  soul  stood  naked — 
humble,  merciful  and  God-like.  He  stooped 
over  the  girl.  "Poor  little  mother!"  he  said, 
and  gently  lifted  her  from  the  floor. 

He  half  carried,  half  led  her  to  a  chair.  Go- 
ing to  a  buffet  near  the  window,  he  opened  it 
and  taking  out  a  bottle  of  rare  wine  poured 
some  in  a  glass  and  returned  to  her.  "Drink 

126 


this,  child,"  he  said  gravely;  "it  will  help  you." 
She  obeyed.  He  marked  the  quivering  lips, 
the  trembling  of  her  slight  figure,  the  flutter- 
ing of  her  little  hands.  "Poor  girl!"  he 
thought.  "What  an  ordeal — to  come  here  alone 
and  bare  her  heart  before  me!" 

Setting  the  glass  upon  the  library  table,  he 
slowly  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  He 
had  entirely  forgotten  his  guests.  Like  light- 
ning a  storm  had  descended  upon  his  fragile 
castle  of  fancy  and  demolished  it.  It  lay  in 
ruins  before  him — all  its  fair  proportions  bent, 
broken  and  awry.  The  problem  now  was  what 
to  do  with  the  wreck.  Upon  what  rubbish 
heap  should  he  throw  this  frail  remnant  of 
his  dreams?  Where  toss  its  stained  bits  of 
color,  its  distorted  and  shapeless  mass?  Its 
pretty  painted  walls  mocked  him;  its  twisted 
casements  leered  at  him,  and  through  its  empty 
corridors  sounded  the  ghostly,  mocking  laugh- 
ter of  his  departing  hopes. 


12? 


CHAPTER  XII 

"The  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision." 

SUNDERLAND  paused  at  last  in  his  restless 
strides  and  regarded  Kitty,  who  sat  trying  to 
control  her  tears.  She  looked  so  frail,  so  young, 
so  heartbroken,  that  he  was  moved  to  an  infinite 
pity  for  her.  She  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
child,  he  thought,  not  much  older  than  Lily. 
His  heart  contracted  as  he  thought  of  Lily, 
in  her  radiant  youth,  dimpling  and  blushing 
yonder,  as  she  received  congratulations  upon 
her  betrothal  to  his  son — his  son !  Sunderland 
repressed  an  oath  as  the  thought  of  Gerald 
crossed  his  distraught  mind.  He  drew  a  chair 
up  near  Kitty  and  said  gently:  "Do  you  feel 
strong  enough  to  answer  a  few  questions?" 
The  girl  meekly  bowed  her  head.  "I'll try," 
she  murmured. 

128 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Where  did  you  meet  my  son?"  Sunderland 
asked. 

Kitty  lifted  her  head  and  looked  squarely 
at  him.  "Mr.  Sunderland,"  she  replied  sadly, 
"you  do  not  remember  me — I  am  Wilson's 
daughter " 

"Wilson's  daughter?"  demanded  Sunder- 
land, with  a  faint  perception  of  the  wretched 
truth  dawning  upon  his  consciousness.  "Wrhat 
Wilson?  Not  Job  Wilson — the  Adirondack 
guide?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  Kitty  said  faintly,  for  the  look 
on  his  white,  set  face  terrified  her. 

Sunderland  rose.  He  put  his  hand  to  his 
head  as  if  dazed.  He  stammered  as  he  next 
spoke.  "Why — why — I  have  been  looking 
everywhere  for  you,"  he  said,  "everywhere. 
My  detectives  are  scouring  the  town.  Your — 

your  father  wrote  me— Jerry  knows  it " 

He  suddenly  broke  off.  "Then  it  was  my  son 
who  tempted  you  from  your  home — who 
brought  you  to  New  York?"  For  a  moment 

129 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

he  seemed  incapable  of  sorting  and  compre- 
hending the  facts. 

"Yes,"  returned  the  girl,  wondering  at  the 
dreadful  face  before  her. 

"And  he  has  lived  with  you  since?"  ques- 
tioned the  unhappy  father. 

"Yes."    Kitty  could  scarcely  speak. 

"Has  he  ever  told  you  he  would  marry  you?" 

Sunderland  went  on  with  his  wretched  exam- 
ination. 

"Yes ;  he  has  often  said  he  would  marry  me 
as  soon  as  he  could.  I  have  begged  and  prayed 

him  for  the  sake  of  the  child "  She  broke 

off  with  a  sob. 

"How  did  you  know  that  he  was  engaged 
to  Miss  Adriance?" 

"A  lady  came  this  afternoon  to  see  me " 

"A  lady?"  repeated  Sunderland  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes,  a  very  fine  lady.  She  would  give  no 
name.  She  was  handsome  and  dark,  with  a 
proud  manner." 

"Beatrice  Evans!"  Sunderland  said  to  him- 
130 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

self.  "Why  should  she  interfere?"  Suddenly  a 
hideous  labyrinth  opened  before  him — a  laby- 
rinth leading,  perhaps,  to  some  monstrous,  re- 
volting truth.  The  man  reeled  as  if  he  had 
received  a  blow. 

"She  said,"  Kitty  was  going  on,  "that  if  I 
came  to  you,  you  were  such  a  good  man  you 
would  not  permit  this  wrong  to  be  done." 

"And  so,"  returned  Sunderland  in  a  voice 
he  scarcely  recognized  as  his  own,  "you  have 
come  to  me  for  sympathy." 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  girl  very  simply;  "only 
justice." 

Sunderland  lifted  his  hand  toward  heaven 
as  if  recording  an  oath.  "And  by  God,"  he 
said  solemnly,  "you  shall  have  it!" 

Even  as  he  spoke,  the  curtains  of  the  draw- 
ing-room door  were  hastily  thrust  aside  and 
Gerald  came  in,  blithe,  debonair,  a  smile  on  his 
disdainful  mouth.  "Why,  governor,"  he  cried, 
"do  you  know  dinner  is  served?"  He  paused 
abruptly. 

"Kitty!    Good  God!    Kitty!"  he  cried. 
131 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

Kitty  had  sprung  to  her  feet  at  the  first 
sound  of  his  voice  and  stood  now,  facing  him, 
white,  trembling,  clinging  to  the  back  of  her 
chair  for  support.  For  one  awful  moment  the 
two  stared  at  each  other.  Then  Gerald  spoke 
roughly:  "What  are  you  doing  here?" 

That  one  cry  of  recognition  had  told  his 
father  everything.  Up  to  that  instant  Sun- 
derland  had  clung  to  a  faint  hope  that  it  might 
be  some  sort  of  a  plot  against  his  son's  hap- 
piness— that  there  might  be  some  palliating 
circumstances.  But  that  involuntary  cry 
wrenched  from  Gerald  in  his  surprise  had  shat- 
tered Sunderland's  last  illusion.  He  spoke 
quietly  to  Kitty.  "You  need  not  answer  that 
question,"  he  said.  Then  his  eyes  swept  his 
son's  face.  "You  know  this  young  woman?" 
he  demanded.  "This  girl  I  have  been  seeking 
for  days — in  search  for  whom  you  have  pre- 
tended to  aid  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gerald,  sullenly. 

"You  brought  her  to  New  York?" 

"Yes." 

132 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"You  have  lived  with  her  since?"  the  accus- 
ing voice  went  on. 

"Why "    He  hesitated. 

"You  have  lived  with  her,"  sternly  reiterated 
his  father,  "supported  her?" 

"Yes,"  with  an  effort. 

"You  are  the  father  of  her  child?"  the  terri- 
ble catechism  went  on. 

"Why,  as  to  that,"  Gerald  replied  with  a 
sneer,  "I  cannot  swear " 

"Oh,  Jerry!"  The  reproach,  the  pathos  of 
that  cry  smote  upon  Sunderland's  outraged 
emotions  like  the  cut  of  a  whip  upon  tender 
flesh.  He  confronted  his  son  with  the  face  of 
an  avenging  angel.  "Answer  me,"  he  cried. 
"You  know  the  truth — answer  me!" 

"Well,"  replied  Gerald,  uneasily,  "yes,  then 
-I  am." 

"Ah!"  His  father's  cry  of  pain  and  rage 
rang  like  a  clarion  through  the  room.  Gerald 
started  toward  him.  "Father!"  he  pleaded, 
"listen  to  me " 

"Silence!"  Sunderland  thundered.  "Not  one 
133 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

word.  Go  in  there — stop  that  music !  Send  all 
those  people  away — at  once — do  you  hear? — at 
once!  This  dinner  must  not  go  on." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Gerald,  stag- 
gered by  his  father's  ashen  face  and  disordered 
manner. 

The  curtains  back  of  Gerald  parted  for  an 
instant,  and  a  face  peered  in — a  handsome  face, 
distorted  by  a  malevolent  smile;  then  the  cur- 
tains were  quickly  closed. 

"I  mean,"  Sunderland  was  storming,  "that 
you  shall  not  ruin  the  happiness  of  another  in- 
nocent girl — that  you  shall  not  deceive 
Lily " 

"Father!"  cried  Gerald,  aghast. 

"I  mean  that  here  is  the  girl  you  shall 
marry " 

"Marry  her?  Never!"  Gerald  cried  in  a 
white  rage. 

"You  will  marry  this  girl.  You  shall  atone 
to  her  for  your  cruelty  and  you  shall  legitima- 
tize your  child." 

Gerald  flung  himself  toward  Kitty  with  a 
134 


"Gerald   flung    himselt    toward    Kitty  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
raised  his  hand  to  strike  her." 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

murderous  face.  "You  see  now  what  you  have 
done  by  coming  here  to  breed  mischief  between 
my  father  and  me,  you,  you "  The  shame- 
ful word  was  lost  as  he  raised  his  hand  to  strike 
her. 

Kitty  screamed  at  his  frightful  face  and 
the  descending  blow.  She  rushed  to  Sunder- 
land,  who  threw  his  arms  about  her  to  protect 
her.  The  girl  clung  to  him,  sobbing  and  pant- 
ing. 

For  some  time  the  raised  voices,  the  high 
words,  had  penetrated  the  drawing-room.  And 
now,  at  Kitty's  scream,  Beatrice,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  drawn  curtains,  cried  out  in  well- 
simulated  horror:  "Quick,  quick!  all  come — 
there  is  some  trouble."  She  tore  back  the  cur- 
tains and  rushed  into  the  library,  followed  by 
the  other  alarmed  guests.  All  saw  Sunder- 
land  holding  a  slight,  quivering  figure  in  his 
arms  and  facing  his  son  with  gray,  contemptu- 
ous face. 

Gerald,  with  staring,  bloodshot  eyes,  was  re- 
coiling from  the  sight.  "Father,"  he  raged,  in 

135 


an   absolute    frenzy,    "what    are   you   doing? 

Don't  touch  her.    Why,  she  is  my " 

But  Sunderland,  standing  like  a  rock,  still 
protecting  the  girl,  faced  them  all  with  the 
air  of  a  monarch.  "Silence!"  he  commanded, 
as  all  in  the  room  gasped;  "she  is  to  be  my 
daughter." 


136 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"But  the  greatest  of  these  is  Charity." 

DOROTHY  ADRIANCE  closed  the  door  of  her 
room  behind  her  and  turned,  extending  tremu- 
lous hands  to  Lily,  who  had  preceded  her. 

The  two  occupied  communicating  rooms  in 
the  north  wing  of  Sunderland's  superb  mansion 
on  upper  Fifth  Avenue.  The  rooms  were  hung 
with  quaint  tapestries  and  lined  with  mirrors. 
Before  one  of  these  Lily  stood  now,  a  sweet, 
white  vision,  calmly  drawing  off  her  long 
gloves.  She  wore  a  preoccupied  air.  It  seemed 
to  her  anxious,  frightened  mother  that  her 
child  had  grown  strangely  mature  in  the  last 
half  hour.  Dorothy  had  looked  for  a  fainting 
fit  or  hysterics,  after  the  brutal  discovery  be- 
low stairs.  Instead,  she  saw  a  composed  and 

137 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

tranquil  young  woman,  who  appeared  to  be 
deeply  engrossed  in  meditation. 

"Lily,"  ejaculated  her  alarmed  mother, 
"why  do  you  not  speak — say  something?" 

"What  is  there  to  say,  mamma?"  calmly 
asked  the  girl,  turning  from  the  dressing- 
table.  "It  occurs  to  me  there  is  absolutely  noth- 
ing we  can  say." 

"What  shall  we  do,  then?"  cried  Mrs.  Adri- 
ance,  despairingly. 

Lily  came  over  to  her  mother  and  took  the 
trembling,  little  figure  in  her  strong,  young 
arms.  "We  will  go  away,  mamma,"  she  said 
firmly,  "to-morrow,  to  some  place  where  you 
can  rest  and  recover  from  the  shock  of  this 
affair."  Mrs.  Adriance  was  weeping  now,  her 
pretty,  soft,  white  head  pressed  against  her 
daughter's  bosom.  Lily  soothed  and  petted 
her  as  she  might  a  child.  The  two  had  sudden- 
ly changed  relations — the  daughter  had  become 
the  stronger,  the  one  upon  whom  to  rely. 

"I  can  never  recover  from  the  humiliation, 
the  shame  of  it,"  sobbed  Dorothy.  "What  an 

138 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

abominable  affair!  At  your  engagement  din- 
ner— oh,  the  disgrace  of  it!  I  suppose  it  will 
all  be  in  Town  Tattles.  Did  you  see  Beatrice? 
She  looked  like  a  fiend.  Oh,  Lily,  why  don't 
you  cry?  I  cannot  understand  it." 

"Do  you  seriously  think,  mother,"  Lily 
asked  with  considerable  disdain,  "that  Gerald 
is  worth  one  tear?" 

Dorothy  lifted  her  tear-stained  face  and 
looked  at  her  daughter  incredulously.  "But 
you  are  heartbroken " 

"Nonsense,  mamma!"  said  the  girl  lightly. 
"My  heart  is  very  well  indeed.  You  are  the 
one  who  is  heartbroken — not  I." 

Dorothy  drew  back  a  step  or  two  and  re- 
garded Lily  in  amazement.  "You  are  not  dis- 
appointed?" she  gasped. 

"Not  the  least  bit  in  the  world,"  returned 
Lily,  cheerfully,  as  she  unclasped  the  collar  of 
pearls  which  Gerald  had  given  her  and  tossed 
it  contemptuously  on  her  dressing-table. 

Her  mother  was  dazed.  "Then — then" — she 
stammered — "you  did  not  love  Gerald — • — " 

139 


THE   STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"Not  as  a  husband,"  said  Lily,  courageously 
facing  her  mother.  The  time  for  subterfuge 
was  past.  It  was  best  her  mother  should  know 
the  truth.. 

"Why,  then,  did  you  accept  him?"  asked  her 
mother,  sinking  into  an  arm-chair,  as  if  quite 
unable  to  support  this  statement. 

"Dear  little  mother!"  said  Lily,  kneeling  by 
her,  "to  please  you  and  guardie.  I  did  not 
understand  about  these  things.  I  was  guided 
by  you.  I  did  not  realize  that  a  woman's  heart 
is  something  too  solemn  and  sacred  to  be  care- 
lessly given  to  the  first  trifler  who  asks  for  it. 
But  to-night  I  have  learned  a  lesson — a  lesson 
I  can  never  forget." 

Mrs.  Adriance  laid  her  cheek  on  her  daugh- 
ter's head.  "Lily,  darling,"  she  cried,  "forgive 
me.  I  thought  I  was  acting  for  the  best.  It 
seemed  such  a  good  marriage  for  you."  She 
was  sobbing  bitterly  again. 

"Dearest,"  returned  her  daughter,  with  a 
tender  embrace,  "do  not  grieve  so.  You  did 
not  dream  of  these  frightful  conditions.  But 

140 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

you  must  see  how  utterly  impossible  it  is  for 
us  to  remain  here  longer  than  this  night." 

"Yes,  yes,"  assented  her  weeping  mother, 
clinging  to  her. 

"Now,  dear,  dry  your  eyes  and  let  me  bathe 
them  in  cologne,"  suggested  Lily;  "then  you 
must  go  to  bed.  And  I  will  have  Marie  and 
Elise  pack  up  in  the  morning  and  we  will  go 
abroad  at  once." 

As  Mrs.  Adriance  was  endeavoring  to  con- 
trol her  emotion  and  Lily  was  getting  her  more 
composed,  a  note  was  brought  to  Dorothy  from 
Sunderland.  "My  dear  Dorothy,"  it  ran,  "I 
shall  not  permit  Kitty  to  leave  the  house  to- 
night. I  wish  to  place  her  in  your  care.  Do 
not  refuse  this  request,  I  beg  you.  For  the 
sake  of  our  long  friendship,  I  pray  you  will 
open  your  door  to  this  suffering  girl.  If  I 
put  her  by  herself,  there  is  likely  to  be  another 
tragedy  by  morning!" 

"Oh,"  moaned  Dorothy,  "how  can  George 
ask  this  of  me  ?  I  cannot  see  this  girl  who  has 

wrecked  all  our  hopes " 

141 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Mother!"  cried  Lily,  standing  before  her 
like  a  strong,  young  saint,  with  a  look  of  in- 
effable sweetness  on  her  face,  "you  forget  Who 
said  'He  that  is  without  sin,  let  him  cast  the 
first  stone.'  Suppose  it  was  I  who  had  been 
so  cruelly  treated — would  you  wish  every  man's 
hand  against  me?  Guardie  is  perfectly  right. 
Let  that  poor  girl  come  to  us.  Why,  she  is 
far  better  than  Gerald,  and  you  were  willing 
I  should  marry  him." 

In  awe  before  this  new,  dominating  daugh- 
ter, born  within  the  last  hour,  Mrs.  Adriance 
at  last  consented  to  the  arrangement.  Her 
only  stipulation  was  that  Lily  should  retire  to 
her  own  room  before  Kitty  was  admitted. 

To  this  Lily  finally  consented.  She  kissed 
her  mother  good-night  and  whispered:  "Be 
kind  to  her,  mother,  dear.  Remember  it  might 
have  been  me." 

"Lily,  you  shall  not  speak  so,"  interrupted 
her  mother.  "How  can  you  compare  your- 
self  " 

"Mother,"  said  the  girl,  lightly  laying  her 
142 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

hand  over  Dorothy's  lips,  "she  loved  Gerald. 

If  I  were  madly  in  love '     She  paused,  and 

a  sudden  flood  of  crimson  dyed  her  face.  Once 
again  she  felt  burning  kisses  on  her  hands,  saw 
eyes  that  shone  with  strange  brilliancy  read- 
ing her  very  soul.  A  soft,  delicious  languor 
enveloped  her.  She  felt  herself  borne  onward 
by  irresistible  impulses.  She  trembled.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  murmured:  "I,  too,  might 
be  weak — who  knows?" 

Then  she  fled  to  her  room,  leaving  her 
mother  amazed  and  angry  at  such  reprehensi- 
ble sentiments.  "What  ails  Lily?"  she  asked 
herself.  "This  brutal  affair  seems  to  have 
turned  her  brain." 

Presently  there  was  a  soft  knock  at  her  door. 
A  maid  entered,  showing  Kitty  in.  The  girl 
paused  irresolute  by  the  door.  At  a  sign  from 
Mrs.  Adriance,  the  maid  departed  to  recount 
the  latest  chapter  of  the  night's  history  to  the 
kitchen  cabinet. 

Dorothy  looked  coldly  at  the  slight  figure, 
the  pale,  stony  face.  All  the  barriers  of  society, 

143 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

of  conventionality,  of  decency,  rose  between  her 
and  this  castaway — this  wretched  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  backwoodsman,  who  had  thwarted 
her  pet  ambitions.  There  had  been  a  brief  in- 
terview between  Sunderland  and  herself,  after 
the  last  stunned  and  shocked  guest  had  hastily 
departed,  in  which  the  whole  miserable  truth 
had  been  told  her ;  when,  wild  with  disappoint- 
ment and  rage,  Dorothy  had  rushed  up  to  her 
room  to  find  Lily  waiting  for  her  at  their  door. 
Now  this  girl  had  been  thrust  upon  her  for  the 
night.  It  was  too  much.  George  was  unjust 
— cruel.  For  a  moment  all  Dorothy's  \vorldli- 
ness  rose  in  arms  to  defend  her  position  as  a 
mother  and  virtuous  member  of  society.  She 
would  be  justified,  she  felt,  in  showing  this  girl 
the  door. 

Suddenly  she  saw  Lily  again,  standing  be- 
fore her  in  her  strong,  sweet  young  woman- 
hood, with  a  transfiguring  light  upon  her  beau- 
tiful face.  "Be  good  to  her,  mother,"  rang  in 
her  ears.  What  if  it  were  her  own  beloved 
child  who  stood,  betrayed  and  broken-hearted, 

144 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

at  the  threshold  of  life?  Infinite  pity  for  the 
sufferer  rushed  over  her.  "Come  here,  child," 
she  said,  extending  her  arms.  The  girl  hesi- 
tated, then,  with  a  moan  like  some  animal  in 
distress,  staggered  across  the  room  and  fell  on 
her  knees  before  her.  Dorothy's  barriers  were 
all  down  now.  She  pressed  the  rough  brown 
head  closely  to  her  throbbing  heart.  The  tears 
of  the  trembling  wayfarer  fell  on  the  laces  of 
her  costly  robe.  The  two  women  wept  to- 
gether. 


145 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"This  even-handed  Justice 

Commends    the   ingredients    of   our    poison    chalice 

To  our  own  lips." 

ALWAYS  after  a  terrific  social  upheaval,  there 
succeeds  a  period  of  quiet  despair.  It  is  like 
the  calm  that  broods  upon  earth  and  sea  after 
a  fierce  battle  of  the  elements.  The  pathway 
of  the  storm  is  yet  visible,  its  havoc  is  still  ap- 
parent on  every  side.  But  Nature  has  exhaust- 
ed herself — she  must  rest  for  a  time. 

The  morning  after  the  savage  events  of  the 
night  found  the  great  house  still  and  appar- 
ently tranquil.  The  well-trained  servants  came 
and  went,  opened  doors  and  windows  and  set 
about  their  customary  duties  as  if  nothing  un- 
usual had  occurred.  The  superb  feast  had  been 
hurriedly  cleared  away  in  the  evening.  The 

146 


famous  gold  plate  was  concealed,  the  cham- 
pagne and  Burgundy  returned  to  the  cellars. 
Any  traces  of  a  proposed  engagement  dinner 
had  vanished  as  if  by  necromancy. 

Breakfast  was  served  to  Mrs.  Adriance  and 
Lily  in  their  rooms.  Kitty  did  not  touch  the 
food  Dorothy  kindly  urged  upon  her.  The  girl 
had  not  slept.  All  night  she  had  lain  upon 
the  couch  shaken  by  spasms  of  sobs,  dreadful 
to  hear.  Her  one  thought  had  been  for  her 
baby.  At  times  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
go  to  it.  Her  anxiety  and  grief  had  so  worn 
upon  her  that,  at  daylight,  Dorothy  despatched 
a  brief,  decisive  note  to  Sunderland.  Within 
an  hour  a  cab  stopped  before  the  house  from 
which  descended  Thomas,  immaculate  and 
severe,  carrying  a  mass  of  lace  and  embroidery 
in  his  arms.  He  sniffed  disapprovingly  as  he 
handed  the  bundle  to  a  maid.  "Fine  doings 
for  hour  'ouse,  I  must  say,"  he  loftily  observed. 

Of  Gerald  nothing  was  seen.  He  was  shut 
up  in  his  rooms,  and  his  valet's  latest  bulletin 
to  the  other  servants  reported  that  he  was  in 

147 


"an  awful  way."  His  father  had  passed  the 
night  alone  in  the  library.  The  lights  had 
burned  until  dawn,  when  they  were  suddenly 
extinguished.  Now  as  the  warm  sunlight  tried 
to  push  its  way  into  the  darkened  room,  Sun- 
derland  sat  before  his  desk,  his  head  in  his 
hands.  He  plainly  showed  the  frightful  vigil 
he  had  kept  with  his  tortured  soul.  His  desk 
was  in  disorder,  a  mass  of  papers  having  been 
tossed  hurriedly  about,  as  if  he  had  searched 
for  something.  With  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  rend 
his  heart,  he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  intently 
at  a  tiny  object  in  his  hand.  It  was  a  miniature 
painted  of  Gerald  when  he  was  about  three 
years  old.  The  childish  face,  as  beautiful  as 
an  angel's,  smiled  up  at  him  with  winsome  in- 
nocence. "My  little  boy — my  little  boy!" 
groaned  the  unhappy  man.  His  memory  went 
with  lightning  rapidity  over  the  years  of 
Gerald's  life ;  the  beautiful  child,  the  handsome 
youth,  the  dashing  collegian,  the  gay,  good- 
humored  young  man.  How  he  had  loved  him, 

148 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

planned  for  him,  built  for  him!  And  now — 
the  world  was  in  ashes! 

How  still  the  house  was!  It  was  as  if  some 
one  lay  dead  in  it.  And  as  Sunderland  listened, 
suddenly  a  strange  cry  smote  upon  his  hearing, 
the  pitiful  wail  of  an  infant.  He  started  as 
if  he  had  been  shot,  sprang  to  his  feet,  hesi- 
tated. Then,  as  if  his  resolve  was  unalterably 
taken,  walked  firmly  to  the  bell. 

Thomas  glided  in,  severely  sympathetic.  In 
his  respectable  black  he  resembled  an  under- 
taker ready  to  proffer  his  services. 

"You  have  done  as  I  ordered?"  his  master 
asked. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Sunderland" ;  but  with  a  note  of 
protest  in  his  voice. 

"Has  Mr.  Maxwell  come?" 

"Yes,  sir;  'e  'as  been  waitin'  'alf  an  hour, 
sir." 

"Let  him  come  in,"  returned  Sunderland, 
wearily. 

There  came  in,  presently,  a  small,  fussy  man 
of  sixty-five,  with  bright,  sharp  eyes,  shriveled 

149 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

face  and  nervous,  jerky  manner.  Walter  Max- 
well had  been  Sunderland's  lawyer  for  years 
and  had  served  his  father  before  him.  He  was 
devoted  to  the  house.  In  his  eyes  a  Sunder- 
land  could  not  go  very  far  astray.  Although, 
from  the  peremptory  note  he  had  received  be- 
fore dawn,  he  had  realized  that  something  must 
be  wrong,  he  had  not  been  prepared  for  such 
details  as  Thomas  had  obligingly  furnished  him 
during  his  wait.  "The  deuce  and  hall  was  to 
pay  'ere  last  night,  sir,"  that  functionary  had 
said.  "Hinstead  of  the  dinner,  we  'ad  a  bloom- 
in'  riot,  hand  Mr.  Jerry  got  the  worst  of  it. 
The  hengagement  is  busted  hand  I'm  turned 
nursery  maid." 

When  Maxwell  came  before  Sunderland, 
this  man  with  bloodless  face  and  heavy  eyes 
made  him  highly  nervous.  He  apprehended  a 
severe  catechism,  and  he  was  not  disappointed. 

"Maxwell,"  demanded  Sunderland,  "an- 
swer me  one  question.  Have  you  known  all 
along  of  Jerry's  relations  to  this  girl?" 

"Why,  my  dear  Sunderland,"  replied  the 
150 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

lawyer,  wiping  his  forehead  with  an  agitated 
hand,  "I  must  admit  that  I  have  heard 
rumors." 

"Why  did  you  not  come  to  me?" 

"Hang  it,  sir,"  cried  Maxwell,  irascibly,  "I 
am  no  tattler!  Besides,"  he  added,  com- 
placently, "a  young  man  must  sow  his  wild 
oats." 

"I  beg  you  will  spare  me  platitudes,"  re- 
turned Sunderland,  sternly.  "You  know  bet- 
ter than  any  one  how  I  have  loved  my  son,  what 
I  have  done  for  him,  what  I  intended  to  do. 
I  thought  him  a  decent,  manly  fellow — a  little 
harum-scarum  now  and  then — but  all  right  at 
heart " 

"And  so  he  is,  I  dare  say,"  interrupted  the 
lawyer,  somewhat  tartly. 

"He  is  not,"  thundered  Sunderland.  "He 
is  a  profligate.  You  knew  it — all  the  world 
knew  it — and  there  was  none  to  warn  me," 
he  bitterly  concluded. 

"Oh,  now,  my  dear  Sunderland,"  returned 
Maxwell,  placatingly,  "you  take  this  affair  too 

151 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

much  to  heart,  altogether  too  much  to  heart, 
for  a  man  of  the  world.  Boys  will  be 
boys " 

"Stop  extenuating  my  son's  conduct,"  cried 
Sunderland,  savagely.  "You  know  that  it  is 
despicable.  My  son — my  boy — my  Jerry — of 
whom  I  was  so  proud — a  rake — a  seducer  of 
innocent  girls!  Oh,  it  is  infamous — damnable!" 
His  voice  broke.  Rising,  he  paced  the  floor 
restlessly.  "And  then,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  "that  he  should  dare  to  seek 
that  sweet  child — the  daughter  of  my  oldest, 
my  dearest  friend — that  he  should  attempt  to 
pollute  her  life — oh,  it  is  too  much — too  much !" 
Here  he  gave  way  altogether.  He  flung  him- 
self into  a  chair  by  his  desk  and  dropped  his 
proud  head  on  his  arms.  "My  God!  how  can 
I  endure  it?"  he  sobbed. 

Maxwell  rose  in  alarm.  No  one  had  ever 
seen  Sunderland  go  to  pieces.  He  had  ever 
been  a  proverbial  tower  of  strength  and  forti- 
tude. To  see  him  now,  his  head  in  the  dust, 
weeping  like  a  woman,  was  appalling.  The 

152 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

lawyer  went  over  to  him,  and,  after  suspicious- 
ly clearing  his  throat  once  or  twice,  laid  his 
hand  somewhat  timidly  on  Sunderland's  shoul- 
der. "Now,  my  dear  Sunderland,"  he  said,  "do 
not  give  way  like  this.  Listen  to  a  hard-headed 
old  lawyer's  advice.  Buy  off  this  girl,  settle 
a  sum  on  her  sufficient  to  maintain  her  and  the 
child.  Pack  Jerry  off  to  Europe  for  a  year  or 
so,  until  this  wretched  business  shall  have  been 
forgotten.  In  the  meantime — who  knows? — 
Miss  Adriance  may  forgive  him." 

Sunderland  lifted  his  head  and  stared  coldly 
at  Maxwell.  Then  he  struck  the  desk  with 
his  clenched  fist.  "Maxwell,"  he  said,  deter- 
minedly, "my  son  shall  never  marry  that  in- 
nocent girl — never!" 

"But,  my  dear  Sunderland "  began  the 

lawyer. 

"I  tell  you  he  shall  marry  this  poor  child 
whom  he  has  betrayed." 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  shrieked  Maxwell. 
"You  are  mad!  Do  you  want  to  ruin  your 
son's  life  by  tying  him  to  a  girl  of  that  sort?" 

153 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"She  is  good  enough  for  him,"  said  Sunder- 
land,  doggedly. 

"Well — I  swear!"  gasped  the  lawyer,  inca- 
pable of  further  speech. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  have  sent  for  you?" 
stubbornly  went  on  the  white-faced  man.  "Be- 
cause I  am  going  to  put  the  issue  squarely  be- 
fore my  son.  Either  he  will  marry  this  girl 
and  make  an  honest  woman  of  the  mother  of 
his  child,  or" — the  words  came  slowly  and  with 
ominous  distinctness — "I  shall  disinherit  him. 
I  may  want  you  to  draw  up  another  will." 

"Well — I'll  be  damned!"  came  from  the  as- 
tounded lawyer. 

"You  may  be  if  you  like,"  retorted  Mr.  Sun- 
derland,  grimly.  "Go  in  the  drawing-room, 
please,  and  wait  until  I  send  for  you." 

Slowly  Maxwell  turned  and  went,  mutter- 
ing and  shaking  his  bald  head,  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. It  was  too  much  for  his  philosophy. 
He  feared  that  Sunderland's  troubles  had  actu- 
ally turned  his  brain. 

,  154 


CHAPTER  XV 

"A  little,  round,  fat,  oily  man  of  God." 

As  THE  doors  closed  behind  Maxwell,  growl- 
ing and  scolding  to  himself  over  Sunderland's 
Quixotic  theories,  Thomas  brought  in  a  card 
to  his  master. 

Sunderlarid  glanced  at  it.  "Yes,  I  will  see 
him,"  he  said  with  a  curious  inflection  in  his 
voice  and  a  determined  squaring  of  his  shoul- 
ders, as  if  apprehensive  of  a  coming  conflict. 
A  moment  later,  a  short,  stout  man,  smoothly- 
shaven,  perfectly  groomed,  wearing  a  clerical 
coat  of  immaculate  cut,  was  shown  into  the 
library.  The  Rev.  James  Mason  was  the  type 
of  shepherd  who  seeks  diligently  to  follow  the 
injunction:  "Make  to  yourselves  friends  of 
the  mammon  of  unrighteousness."  Pastor  of 

155 


one  of  the  most  exclusive  uptown  churches,  he 
was  imbued  with  the  letter  of  the  law.  He 
was  a  devotee  of  forms  and  ceremonies  as  well 
as  of  smart  society.  No  elegant  function  was 
deemed  quite  en  regie  without  the  presence  of 
this  rubicund,  urbane,  indulgent  clergyman. 
He  had  been  a  guest  of  Sunderland  the  night 
before  and  with  the  rest  had  fled  precipitately 
from  the  shocking  scene  between  father  and 
son.  Now,  in  response  to  a  hurried  note  from 
Sunderland,  he  had  come,  wondering  what  he 
could  possibly  say  under  such  unheard  of,  such 
appalling  conditions.  However,  he  pressed 
Sunderland's  hand,  murmuring  with  unctuous 
impressiveness :  "My  dear  friend!"  Then 
paused,  shook  his  head  mournfully  and  select- 
ing the  most  spacious  chair  in  the  room,  be- 
stowed himself  therein,  resting  his  head  upon 
his  hand,  as  if  quite  overcome  by  deep  concern. 
"Doctor,"  said  Sunderland  after  a  pause, 
"you  were  a  witness  of  that  disgraceful  scene 
of  last  evening?" 

156 


THE   STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Unfortunately — yes,"  sighed  the  Reverend 
Mason. 

"No,"  returned  Sunderland,  "it  was  fortu- 
nate that  you  were  here.  Otherwise  I  should 
be  forced  to  go  over  much  that  is  painful  to 
me.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  decision  I  made 
last  night  has  not  been  shaken." 

"Ah !  I  trust  you  have  not  been  over-hasty, 
my  dear  friend."  The  clergyman's  eyes  were 
closed  and  he  was  daintily  touching  the  tips  of 
his  fat,  beautifully-manicured  fingers. 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Sunderland,  somewhat 
coldly.  "I  have  not  shut  my  eyes  all  this  night. 
I  have  walked  the  floor  here,  alone,  thinking 
until  my  brain  has  reeled.  Doctor,  my  son 
must  marry  this  girl." 

"Marry!"  ejaculated  the  clergyman,  shocked 
out  of  all  well-bred  languor. 

"Yes,  marry,"  Sunderland  answered  defi- 
antly. 

"But  do  you  consider "  began  Mason. 

He  was  savagely  interrupted.  "Does  a  serv- 
ant of  God  condone  such  iniquity?"  demanded 

157 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Sunderland,  bending  a  piercing  glance  upon 
the  other. 

"Why — no — my  dear  friend/'  returned 
Mason,  silkily.  "No,  certainly  not.  But  your 
position  is,  I  must  maintain,  most  extraordi- 
nary. The  average  parent  would  seek  to  save 
his  child  from  the  results  of  his  folly " 

"Then,  thank  God,  I  am  not  the  average," 
broke  in  Sunderland.  Repressing  himself  he 
went  on :  "I  asked  you  to  come  here  this  morn- 
ing, Dr.  Mason,  for  I  wish  you  to  marry  my 
son  to  this  girl.  Do  you  refuse?"  as  the  clergy- 
man lifted  a  protesting  hand. 

"Of  course,  I  cannot  refuse,"  Mason  said, 
his  disapprobation  manifest  in  his  face,  "if  you 
insist.  But  it  is  very  painful — I  may  say,  my 
friend,  an  unusually  painful  duty." 

"And  do  you  think,  doctor,  that  I  am  not 
suffering?"  asked  Sunderland,  intensely.  "Do 
you  think  it  is  nothing  to  me  to  have  all  my 
hopes  dashed  to  the  ground — my  heart  torn 
out  by  the  roots?"  . 

158 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Ah,  would  it  not  be  feasible  to  delay  this 
matter?"  questioned  the  clergyman. 

"To  what  end?"  asked  Sunderland  abruptly. 

"Well,  my  dear  Sunderland,  you  might — ah, 
hum — you  might  possibly  arrive  at  different 
conclusions,"  suggested  Mason  with  unction. 

"Doctor,"  said  the  unhappy  father,  "right  is 
right  and  wrong  is  wrong  at  all  times " 

"Oh,  to  be  sure — to  be  sure,"  interrupted  his 
spiritual  director  hastily.  "But  as  a  question 

of  expediency "    He  paused  as  he  saw  the 

cloud  gather  upon  Sunderland's  gray  face. 

"If  I  were  to  defer  this  matter  for  years," 
returned  the  latter,  "I  could  arrive  at  no  other 
decision.  Will  you,  doctor,  kindly  withdraw 
to  the  next  room  and  wait  there  until  I  sum- 
mon you?"  He  indicated  the  drawing-room  as 
he  spoke.  The  clergyman  rose  deliberately 
and  walked  toward  the  door. 

"I  hope  you  will  not  regret  this  step,"  he 
said  stiffly. 

"Thank  you,  doctor,"  returned  Sunderland 
with  grim  courtesy. 

159 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Dr.  Mason  paused  at  the  threshold.  "Bet- 
ter consider  the  matter,  my  friend,"  he  said 
pompously.  "Ah,  better  consider  it  further. 
Or  advise  with  some  other.  It  is  a  question 
of  your  son's  happiness,  you  know." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  doctor,"  Sunderland 
responded  firmly.  "It  is  not  a  question  of  my 
son's  happiness.  It  is  a  question  of  right — 
above  all — of  justice."  He  looked  steadfastly 
at  the  clergyman  as  he  spoke  with  just  a  tinge 
of  contempt  in  his  sorrowful  eyes.  Dr.  Mason 
looked  as  steadily  at  him  for  a  second,  then 
lowered  his  eyes  and  somewhat  uneasily  left 
the  room. 

"Advise  with  some  other,"  repeated  Sunder- 
land, slowly.  "That  was  the  only  sensible  thing 
he  said.  I  will."  He  pressed  his  electric  bell 
and  Thomas  appeared  once  more.  "Thomas, 
ask  Mrs.  Adriance  to  kindly  see  me  here  for  a 
few  minutes,"  he  said. 

As  he  waited  for  Dorothy,  there  was  a  bustle 
in  the  hall,  coupled  with  expostulations  and 
high  voices.  Immediately  thereafter,  Mrs. 

160 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Flornoy  rustled  in,  followed  by  Bobby,  the 
trailer,  looking  rather  sheepish  and  uncomfort- 
able. 

Adelaide  gushingly  rushed  to  Sunderland. 
"The  man  was  not  going  to  let  us  in,"  she  cried, 
"but  I  insisted.  I  know  when  one  is  in  trouble 
one  wants  one's  friends.  Ah,  my  dear  George, 
I  am  awfully  upset  over  this  dreadful  contre- 
temps. It  is  shocking !  Bobby,  too,  is  tremen- 
dously cut  up — aren't  you,  Bobby?  What  are 
you  grinning  at?"  she  added  in  a  stage  whis- 
per. "Look  sad,  you  idiot." 

"Will  this  do?"  returned  Bobby,  trying  to 
pull  a  doleful  face. 

"Dear  George,"  gabbled  the  lady,  "you 
know  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do,  you  have 
only  to  call  upon  me.  Would  you  like  it  kept 
out  of  the  papers?  I  know  Jimmy  Todd  of 
Town  Tattles  very  well,  and  the  editor  of  the 
Yellowgram  dines  at  my  house." 

"Oh,  it  matters  very  little,"  replied  Sunder- 
land, wearily.  "Nothing  seems  to  matter  now." 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Mrs.  Flornoy,  seating 
161 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

herself  on  the  divan  and  arranging  her  laces. 
"You  must  not  take  it  that  way.  Why,  in 
nine  days  the  affair  will  be  forgotten.  Some 
woman  will  divorce  her  husband,  or  some  man 
run  away  with  another  chap's  wife,  and  this 
little  transgression  of  Jerry's  will  be  quite  laid 
on  the  shelf." 

"Little  transgression!"  repeated Sunderland, 
bitterly.  "How  can  you  speak  so  lightly  of  a 
great  wrong?" 

"Great  wrong!"  twittered  Adelaide.  "Fid- 
dle-de-dee !  Jerry  is,  I  fancy,  much  like  others 
— -like  Bobby,  for  example." 

Bobby  gave  an  indignant  snort.  "I  assure 
you "  he  began. 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Bobby!"  cried  Mrs.  Flornoy. 
"Nobody  cares  to  hear  you  brag  of  your  vir- 
tue." She  turned  to  Sunderland.  "You  sure- 
ly are  not  going  to  carry  out  your  Quixotic 
resolution  of  last  evening  to  espouse  this  girl's 
cause?" 

"I  am,"  replied  Sunderland,  steadily. 

"My  dear  George,"  Adelaide  said,  "you  are 
162 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

dotty.  What  will  the  world — your — our  world 
-say?" 

"I  do  not  know  or  care,"  returned  Sunder- 
land,  stubbornly.  "I  shall  insist  on  Jerry's 
giving  her  his  name  legally." 

"Do  you  mean,"  shrieked  Mrs.  Flornoy, 
"that  he  shall  marry — marry — this  girl?" 

"That  is  what  I  mean,"  tensely  and  quietly. 

Mrs.  Flornoy  rose  in  indignation.  "Do  you 
fancy,"  she  cried,  "that  you  can  impose  upon 
society  in  this  fashion  ?  Society  might  forgive 
Jerry's  entanglement  with  the  girl,  but  his 
marriage — never !" 

"Society  may  go  to  the  devil!"  retorted  Sun- 
derland. 

Mrs.  Flornoy  gave  him  one  look  of  wither- 
ing scorn.  "Come,  Bobby,"  she  said,  "let  us 
go.  This  is  no  place  for  us."  She  swept  out, 
making  as  much  virtuous  rustling  of  her  skirts 
as  possible.  Bobby  stood,  hesitating  one  mo- 
ment. Suddenly  he  rushed  over  to  Sunderland 
and  grasping  his  hand,  shook  it  heartily.  "Oh, 
I  say,"  he  gasped,  "you  are — by  Jove! — you 

163 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

know,  just  a — deuced  splendid  fellow — but, 
you  know,  this  is  social  suicide " 

"Bobby!"  came  in  shrill,  angry  tones  from 
the  hall.  Bobby  dropped  Sunderland's  hand 
in  a  fright  and  joined  his  enraged  companion 
without  further  delay. 

Sunderland  looked  after  him  for  a  moment, 
then,  giving  a  short,  dry  laugh,  returned  to  his 
desk  as  Mrs.  Adriance  entered  the  room.  He 
turned  and  gazed  at  her  with  anguish  in  his 
eyes.  "You  sent  for  me,  George?"  she  asked 
kindly. 

"Yes,  Dorothy,"  he  murmured  with  proud 
humiliation.  "Will  you  sit  down?"  He  pushed 
a  chair  toward  her. 

"I  can  only  stop  a  very  few  minutes,"  she 
faltered  as  she  sat  down.  "We  are  in  the  midst 
of  packing,"  she  added  after  a  brief  pause. 

"You  are  going  away?"  Sunderland  asked, 
fixing  his  heavy,  suffering  eyes  upon  her. 

"Oh,  yes — of  course "  she  began. 

"Why  'of  course/  Dorothy?"  he  persisted. 
164 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"It  is  impossible  for  us  to  remain  here 
after "  She  paused  nervously. 

"After  last  night?"  went  on  Sunderland.  "Is 
that  it,  Dorothy?" 

"Yes,  George,"  with  sad  decision. 

"So  you  will  desert  me  in  my  trouble,"  he 
said  in  a  dull  voice.  Someway  he  had  not 
thought  of  Dorothy's  going.  In  all  his  misery 
he  had  in  fancy  pictured  her  as  being  with  him 
to  help  him  bear  his  burden.  Now  a  hideous 
blankness  suddenly  descended  upon  him.  He 
seemed  to  be  looking  into  an  interminable 
desert.  There  was  no  pool  of  water  to  slake 
his  thirst,  no  palm  trees  in  the  distance  to  beck- 
on him  to  rest — only  boundless,  desolate,  chaot- 
ic waste,  horrible  with  fiery  sand  and  strewn 
with  dead  men's  bones.  He  heard  Dorothy's 
voice  as  from  a  great  distance.  "Oh,  my  dear," 
she  was  saying,  "do  not  speak  to  me  like  that. 
What  else  can  I  do?  Do  you  not  see  for  your- 
self how  utterly  impossible  it  is  for  us  to  re- 
main here — for  my  child  to  again  encounter 
your  son?" 

165 


"You  are  right,"  Sunderland  muttered. 
"Yes,  yes,  you  are  right.  No,  Lily  must  not 

be  brought  in  contact  with — with "     He 

broke  off.    It  was  as  if  he  could  not  speak  his 
son's  name.    "How  is  she?"  he  suddenly  asked. 

"She  amazes  me,  George,"  returned  Mrs. 
Adriance.  "She  is  as  cheerful  and  brave  as 
possible.  'Do  not  let  us  talk  about  it,  mamma,' 
is  all  she  says.  She  is  very  anxious  to  get 
away." 

"And — the  other?"  Sunderland  questioned 
in  the  same  low,  dull  voice.  He  seemed  like  a 
man  in  an  evil  dream,  without  volition  to  rouse 
himself. 

"She  has  not  slept  all  night,"  replied  Mrs. 
Adriance.  "George,  I  have  tried  to  be  kind  to 
her.  Oh,  I  do  pity  her — I  pity  her  with  her 
rigid,  tense  little  figure  and  her  pale,  suffer- 
ing face.  Why,  George,  she  is  only  a  child — 
not  much  older  than  Lily." 

"Yes,  I  know — I  know,"  returned  Sunder- 
land. "Poor  little  girl.  She  has  suffered 
enough.  And — the — the  baby?"  he  added. 

166 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"It  is  the  dearest,  sweetest  little  piece  of 
flesh  and  blood,"  Mrs.  Adriance  answered  with 
enthusiasm.  "A  little  blond  angel — the  image 
of  Jerry." 

Sunderland  straightened  himself  in  his  chair. 
"Dorothy,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  what  I  am 
going  to  do?" 

"I  can  fancy,"  she  replied. 

"What  do  you  imagine?"  he  asked. 

"You  are  going  to  insist  upon  reparation  for 
a  terrible  wrong,"  said  Mrs.  Adriance,  leaning 
eagerly  forward.  "You  are  going  to  give  that 
girl  the  protection  of  a  husband's  name  and 
legitimatize  her  child." 

Sunderland  regarded  her  steadfastly.  "How 
did  you  know  this?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"Well,  you  see,  George,"  she  returned  quite 
simply,  "I  know  you." 

Sunderland  bent  toward  her.  "And  am  I 
'doing  right?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  George,  you  are  right,"  she  bravely 
answered.  "I  confess  had  you  asked  me  this 
question  yesterday  I  could  not  have  agreed 

167 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

with  you.  I  should  have  advised  a  far  differ- 
ent course.  But  I  have  lived  a  lifetime  through 
the  night.  My  eyes  have  been  opened  and  I 
have  seen  how  false  are  all  our  material  view- 
points— what  a  dream  all  existence  is !  I  have 
seen  that  nothing  is  real  but  truth  and  love 
and  justice.  You  are  right.  You  have  al- 
ways been  right.  You  are  the  best  man  I  have 
ever  known." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  gently. 
"Have  you  learned  to  love  me  a  little?"  he 
humbly  questioned. 

"George,"  she  said  with  an  effort,  "I  have 
loved  you  all  my  life." 

"Dorothy " 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  went  on,  "I  loved  you  years 
ago — when  we  were  twenty-one.  But  you  did 
not  speak.  I — I  thought  there  was  some  one 
else.  So "  She  paused. 

"Good  heavens!  how  blind  I  was!"  said  Sun- 
derland.  "And  I  thought  you  loved  Adri- 


ance." 


168 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"But  that  was  so  long  ago,"  Dorothy  went 
on,  "and  now " 

"You  cannot  condemn  me  because  of  Ger- 
ald's acts,"  said  Sunderland,  reproachfully. 

"I  condemn  no  one,  George,"  Mrs.  Adriance 
returned.  "But  consider  a  moment.  Your  son 
has  well-nigh  ruined  our  lives.  Oh,  when  I 
close  my  eyes,  I  can  see  again  that  frightful 
scene,  those  mocking  faces  staring  at  our  mis- 
ery. I  feel  I  must  snatch  my  child  to  my  heart 
and  rush  away — away  from  every  one " 

"Yes,  even  from  me,"  Sunderland  cried.  He 
sank  into  his  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  He  recognized  the  futility,  the  utter 
hopelessness  of  it  all. 

Suddenly  a  soft  hand  touched  his  head  gen- 
tly, lingeringly.  "Good-by,"  a  sweet  voice 
breathed  above  him.  He  heard  her  moving  to- 
ward the  door.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  could 
not.  There  was  nothing  to  say.  Her  steps 
died  away.  She  was  gone — the  woman  he  had 
twice  buried.  He  was  alone  now  in  the  desert. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"It  is  a  familiar  beast  to  man  and  signifies  love." 

"HAS  Mr.  Tyson  come  yet?"  Sunderland 
asked  Thomas,  mechanically. 

"Yes,  sir;  'e  is  in  the  smoking-room,"  re- 
turned the  man. 

"Has — Mr.  Gerald  come  down?" 
"No,  sir;  'e  is  still  in  'is  room." 
"Ask  Mr.  Tyson  to  join  me  here  in  ten  min- 
utes," said  Sunderland.    "And  tell  Mr.  Gerald 
that  I  wish  to  see  him  at  once." 

As  the  man  left  the  room  to  execute  his 
orders,  Sunderland  seected  a  paper  from  a 
mass  of  documents  littering  the  desk  before 
him.  He  glanced  at  it  thoughtfully,  then,  ris- 
ing, went  into  the  drawing-room,  still  looking 
over  the  paper.  He  had  scarcely  quitted  the 

170 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

room  when  Gerald  came  in  response  to  his 
father's  summons.  He  was  flushed  and  a  trifle 
unsteady  of  gaze  and  voice.  He  had  spent  the 
night  drinking  highballs  and  wondering  what 
was  to  become  of  him.  He  could  not  believe 
that  his  father  was  sincere  in  the  resolution  he 
had  formed  the  night  before.  He  knew  that 
Sunderland  had  spoken  under  stress  of  great 
excitement.  "When  he  cools  down  a  bit  he 
•will  look  at  the  affair  differently  and  as  a  man 
of  the  world,"  he  had  over  and  over  persuaded 
himself.  "He  will  probably  pack  me  off  to 
Paris  or  London.  Well,  I  can  survive  that 
exile."  Already  he  had  planned  an  automobile 
trip  through  the  Tyrol  and  Italy.  He  entered 
the  library  jauntily,  prepared  to  brazen  the 
matter  to  a  finish.  But  the  silence  of  the  empty 
room  smote  upon  him  ominously.  He  paused, 
looked  about  and  then,  with  a  strange  sinking 
of  the  heart,  went  up  to  the  great  window  and 
stared  out.  The  wet  streets  and  somber  skies 
filled  him  with  a  sense  of  foreboding  and 
gloom.  A  voice  behind  him  made  him  sud- 

171 


denly  swing  about.  "Guardie,  dear,"  Lily  was 
saying,  "I  must  speak  to  you — ah!"  She  broke 
off  and  stood  white  and  trembling,  as  Gerald 
came  hurriedly  toward  her.  "Lily,  hear 
me "  he  began. 

"Jerry,"  said  the  girl,  putting  out  a  protest- 
ing hand,  "it  is  quite  useless  for  you  to  say  one 
word.  I  beg  you  will  spare  us  both."  She 
turned  and  went  toward  the  door;  but  Gerald, 
hastily  stepping  before  her,  barred  the  way. 

"Good  God,  Lily!"  he  ejaculated.  "You 
cannot  be  so  unjust — so  cruel " 

"It  is  not  I  who  am  unjust  and  cruel,"  said 
Lily,  proudly.  "Please  let  me  pass " 

"Lily,  I  am  desperate,"  cried  Gerald.  His 
bloodshot  eyes  ravenously  devoured  her  cold, 
young  beauty.  "I  cannot  lose  you " 

"You  have  already  lost  me,"  said  the  girl 
icily. 

"Do  you  mean,"  demanded  Gerald,  incredu- 
lously, "that  you  no  longer  love  me?" 

"I  never  loved  you,"  she  courageously  re- 
172 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

plied,  "as  you  wished  me  to.  I  accepted  you 
to  please  my  mother  and  your  father." 

This  plain,  bald  statement  was  a  tremendous 
blow  to  Gerald's  self-love.  He  took  a  step 
or  two  nearer  and  stared  insolently  at  her. 
"So,"  he  sneered,  "you  were  about  to  sacrifice 
yourself.  For  what — my  fortune?  You  had 
enough  of  your  own." 

The  girl  winced  at  his  brutal  thrust,  but 
bravely  stood  her  ground.  "No,  Jerry,"  she 
answered,  "not  for  that.  To  please  the  two  I 
loved  best  in  all  the  world." 

"You  coquette!"  he  returned,  with  an  intol- 
erable smile. 

"Jerry!"    She  recoiled  from  his  look. 

"You  dare  to  trifle  with  me  in  that  fashion!" 
He  came  closer.  "But  you  shall  not  escape 
me.  I  shall  have  you  yet!"  With  a  sudden 
savage  movement  he  seized  her  in  his  arms, 
forcing  her  head  back  upon  his  breast  and 
bending  to  press  his  lips  upon  hers.  The  girl 
struggled  madly  and  succeeded  in  wrenching 
herself  from  the  hateful  bondage  of  his  grasp. 

173 


She  fled  toward  the  door  leading  to  the  hall 
and  upon  its  threshold  ran  full  upon  Tyson, 
who  was  coming  to  his  appointment  with  Sun- 
derland.  At  sight  of  his  splendid  figure,  like 
a  tower  of  defense,  at  his  strong,  fine  face  and 
earnest  eyes,  so  different  from  the  inflamed, 
satyr  countenance  and  obnoxious  glance  she 
had  just  seen  close  to  hers,  she  gave  a  cry  of 
relief  and  flung  herself  into  Tyson's  arms. 
"Oh,  Jack!"  she  sobbed.  "Jack— Jack!" 

Tyson  held  her  closely  and  regarded  Gerald 
firmly.  His  instinct  told  him  at  once  what 
had  happened.  It  was  time  Gerald  should 
understand  that  he  must  reckon  with  him. 
Gerald  stared  stupidly  at  the  two  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  suddenly  burst  into  a  fit  of  out- 
rageous laughter.  "By  God!"  he  shouted.  "I 
never  suspected!" 

Lily  had  hastily  withdrawn  from  the  shel- 
ter of  Jack's  arms  and  stood  blushing  divinely, 
a  picture  of  confusion. 

"Suspected  what?"  demanded  Jack,  cross- 
174 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

ing  to  Gerald,  looking  very  big  and  master- 
ful as  he  towered  threateningly  over  him. 

Gerald  was  still  laughing  insultingly.  "Sus- 
pected —  that  —  our  —  fair  —  sweet  —  white 
Lily "  he  gasped  mockingly. 

"Take  care — take  care,  I  say,"  warned 
Jack,  an  ugly  look  coming  in  his  eyes. 

Gerald  saw  the  look  and  wisely  changed  his 
tactics.  "Lily,"  he  said,  "why,  is  it  possible 
that  you  are  in  love  with  Jack?  Jack,"  he 
jeeringly  continued,  "Jack — the  upright — the 
pure  in  heart?  Why,  dear,  you  are  not  im- 
proving matters  any.  Jack?  Why,  Jack  is  a 
sinner,  too.  He  is  as  much  a  man  of  the 
world  as  I  am.  Aren't  you,  Jack?  Speak  up, 
old  chap — tell  the  lady." 

"Be  silent,  you  blackguard,"  said  Tyson  in 
low,  determined  tones.  "Miss  Adriance,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Lily,  "may  I  beg  you  to 
leave  us  ?" 

The  girl  was  looking  at  him  with  wide-open 
eyes,  full  of  sudden  horror.  She  seemed  in- 
capable of  speech. 

175 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Lily,"  Tyson  pleaded,  "you  do  not  credit 
what  he  says?  He  is  mad — insane  with  drink 
and  jealousy.  Lily,  Lily,  I  beg  you  will  not 
believe  him."  He  tried  to  take  her  hand,  but, 
avoiding  him,  the  girl  turned  and  passed  from 
the  room,  her  eyes  still  opened  wide  like  a  sleep- 
walker's and  filled  with  a  nameless  dread. 


176 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"When  the  scourge 
Inexorable  and  the  torturing  hour 
Call  us  to  penance." 

"You  are  a  deuced  fine  friend,"  remarked 
Gerald,  deridingly.  "So  you  have  been  making 
love  to  my  betrothed.  Damned  cool  of  you, 
I  must  say." 

"Jerry,"  replied  Tyson,  "you  are  a  fool.  I 
have  never  made  love  to  Miss  Adriance." 

"Well,  you  must  have  some  understanding 
with  her,"  persisted  Gerald.  "See  how  she 
threw  herself  in  your  arms  just  now." 

"She  was  forced  there  by  a  cad,"  returned 
Tyson,  contemptuously.  "Jerry,  I  ought  to 
thrash  you  within  an  inch  of  your  life.  You 
need  it.  But  you  are  in  such  an  infernal  mess 

177 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

I  will  overlook  my  duty.  Only  I  tell  you,  you 
must  not  annoy  Miss  Adriance  again." 

"What  business  is  it  of  yours?"  demanded 
Gerald,  getting  very  red  and  angry. 

"You  will  see  if  you  force  your  unwelcome 
attentions  upon  her,"  Tyson  answered  stead- 
ily. "She  is  done  with  you." 

Gerald  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  He  re- 
alized the  truth  of  Tyson's  words.  He  knew 
that  he  could  never  patch  up  the  matter  with 
Lily.  He  recalled  the  shudder  of  aversion 
that  had  shaken  her  as  he  held  her  captive  in 
his  arms,  the  look  of  disgust  on  her  face  as  he 
bent  over  her.  Yes,  it  was  plain  that  she 
despised  him. 

"It's  infernal  luck,  I  tell  you,"  he  com- 
plained, "to  have  such  an  uproar  as  this.  And 
all  for  what?  I  am  no  wrorse  than  any  other 
fellow.  Only  I  have  been  caught  with  the 
goods  on.  It's  a  beastly  shame.  I  wonder 
what  dad  is  going  to  do.  Do  you  know?" 

"I  assure  you,"  Tyson  formally  replied, 
178 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"that  I  have  no  knowledge  whatever  of  Mr. 
Sunderland's  intentions." 

"Oh,  hang  it  all,  Jack,"  Gerald  cried,  "don't 
be  so  confoundedly  stiff  to  a  fellow.  I  am  hav- 
ing it  hard  enough,  God  knows.  Thaw  out  a 
little,  old  man — thaw  out." 

"Jerry,"  said  Tyson  earnestly,  "I  tried  my 
best  to  save  you.  I  felt  there  was  some  fright- 
ful expose  coming.  I  was  reasonably  sure 
that  Trix  would  pay  you  her  debt  to  the  last 
farthing." 

"Yes,  confound  her!"  returned  Gerald, 
gloomily.  "She  has  done  for  me.  I  have  lost 
Lily — that  is  plain.  But  what  about  Kitty? — 
little  devil!  Why,  do  you  know,  Jack,  dad 
told  me  last  night  I  must  marry  her — marry — 
do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Tyson,  coldly;  "and  I 
should  think  that  was  your  only  course.  You 
may  remember  that  I  have  advised  it  from  the 
first." 

Gerald  was  about  to  answer  furiously,  when 
179 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

his  father  suddenly  came  in  from  the  drawing- 
room. 

Sunderland  paused  a  moment  at  sight  of 
the  two,  then,  coming  rapidly  between  them, 
looked  sternly  from  one  to  the  other.  "What 
were  you  two  quarreling  about  here  last  even- 
ing?" he  demanded  without  preface. 

There  was  an  embarrassed  silence.  "Why  do 
you  not  answer?"  he  peremptorily  questioned. 
Still  no  reply.  "Well,  I  will  tell  you,"  he  went 
on.  "You,  Jack,  were  reproaching  Gerald 
for  his  duplicity,  his  treachery,  his  dishonor." 
Gerald  winced  at  the  words.  "And  you,  Ger- 
ald, resented  his  interference.  Am  I  not  right? 
You  do  not  speak.  It  is  not  necessary — I  un- 
derstand perfectly.  It  is  of  minor  importance 
now.  I  have  more  serious  business  in  hand." 

"If  that  is  all  you  wish  to  say  to  me,  Mr. 
Sunderland,"  said  Tyson  with  dignity,  "I  will 
beg  you  to  excuse  me."  He  turned  to  go,  but 
Sunderland's  voice  arrested  him.  "No,  Jack, 
do  not  go  yet,"  he  said.  "I  want  you  here.  I 
wish  you  to  witness  my  son's  marriage  to  this 

180 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

girl,  whose  cause  I  firmly  believe  you  cham- 
pioned last  night." 

"Good  God,  father!"  cried  Gerald,  spring- 
ing up.  "It  cannot  be  that  you  still  persist  in 
your  crazy  ideas.  Do  you  want  to  ruin  my 
life?" 

"You  have  ruined  hers,  have  you  not?" 
asked  his  father  coldly.  "With  what  meas- 
ure ye  mete  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again!" 

"Well,"  said  Gerald,  sulkily,  "I  refuse,  once 
and  for  all.  I  will  never  marry  her." 

"We  shall  see,"  returned  his  father  with 
stony  composure.  He  went  up  to  the  drawing- 
room  entrance  and  drew  aside  the  portieres. 
"Maxwell,  step  here,"  he  called.  Gerald  gave 
a  great  start  and  regarded  his  father  with  ter- 
rified eyes. 

Maxwell  entered,  nearly  as  sullen  and  defi- 
ant as  Gerald.  He  had  little  heart  for  the 
business  in  hand.  He  laid  a  paper  on  the  desk, 
then,  folding  his  arms,  stood  looking  bitterly 
at  the  floor. 

Sundeiiand  sat  at  his  desk,  drew  the  paper 
181 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

before  him  and  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink. 
"Come  here,  Gerald,"  he  said  with  authority. 
Gerald  slowly  obeyed.  "This  is  a  new  will," 
continued  his  father,  "I  have  caused  to  be 
drawn  up,  disinheriting  you  in  case  you  re- 
fuse to  obey  me.  Make  your  choice  now. 
Marry  this  girl  or  I  sign  this  will." 

He  sat,  pen  poised,  ready  to  sign.  The  eyes 
of  the  two  men  met — the  clear,  steady  gaze 
of  the  impartial  judge  and  the  furious  glance 
of  a  fallen  angel  clashed  like  rapiers.  It  was 
a  terrible  moment  while  the  souls  of  father  and 
son  battled  for  supremacy.  The  two  other 
men  held  their  breath  in  suspense.  Would 
Gerald  never  speak?  At  last  in  a  hoarse,  tor- 
tured whisper  the  words  came:  "I — will — 
marry  her." 

Sunderland  laid  down  his  pen  with  a  sigh 
of  relief  which  Tvson  echoed.  Gerald  reeled 

w 

back,  caught  at  a  chair  and  sank  into  it,  his 
head  in  his  hands. 

"Maxwell,"  Sunderland's  voice  sounded  thin 
and  hollow  in  the  silent  room,  "tell  Dr.  Mason 

182 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

that  we  are  ready."  Maxwell  vanished  through 
the  doorway. 

"Dr.  Mason?"  echoed  Gerald,  lifting  a 
bloodless  face  and  staring  at  his  father. 

"Yes,"  replied  Sunderland;  "he  is  here  wait- 
ing to  perform  the  ceremony." 

"Father!"  cried  Gerald  in  genuine  agony, 
"not  now — not  here!  Why,  this  is  inde- 
cent  " 

"I  cannot  see,"  returned  Sunderland,  icily, 
"that  there  have  been  many  decent  features 
about  the  entire  affair.  Yes,  now — here." 

"My  God!  Jack,"  begged  Gerald,  turning 
to  Tyson,  "say  a  word — plead  with  the  gov- 
ernor for  me." 

"Jerry,  it  is  useless,"  replied  Tyson.  "I — I 
am  sorry  for  you.  But  I  think  your  father  is 
absolutely  right." 

Sunderland  had  given  Thomas  a  whispered 
order.  Gerald,  sobered  by  the  appalling  straits 
in  which  he  found  himself,  turned  once  more 
pleadingly  to  his  father.  But  even  as  the  un- 
availing words  died  upon  his  dry  lips,  he  saw 

183 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Mrs.  Adriance  come  through  the  door  from 
the  hall,  her  arm  about  a  slight,  shrinking 
figure,  whose  face  was  hidden  in  her  hands. 

And  then  the  portieres  to  the  drawing-room 
were  thrust  aside,  and  the  clergyman  stood 
there,  a  portentous  figure,  with  an  open  prayer 
book  in  his  hands. 


184 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"Out  of  thine  own  mouth  will  I  judge  thee." 

LILY  stole  softly  down  the  stairs  to  recon- 
noiter.  She  wished  to  see  Sunderland  alone 
before  she  departed.  Their  carriage  was  at 
the  door,  her  mother  had  adjusted  her  bonnet 
and  veil,  and  she  was  donning  her  own  hat, 
when  Thomas  had  delivered  a  message  to  Mrs. 
Adriance. 

Without  one  word  to  her  daughter,  the  little 
lady  had  crossed  the  hall  to  the  room  where 
Kitty  and  her  child  were  housed.  Lily  instant- 
ly decided  that  this  was  her  opportunity  to 
make  one  more  trial  to  see  her  guardian. 

As  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she 
heard  a  strange,  monotonous  voice  droning 
away  as  if  reciting  a  lesson.  She  listened  for 

185 


a  moment  intently.  The  voice  did  not  seem 
to  come  from  the  library  but  from  some  dis- 
tance away.  She  peeped  into  the  library  to 
see  if  the  coast  was  clear.  She  had  no  mind 
to  risk  another  interview  with  Gerald.  The 
room  was  quite  empty  and  silent.  Still  the 
voice  went  on  in  a  steady  monotone— "which 
is  commanded  of  St.  Paul  to  live  honorably 
among  all  men  and  therefore  is  not  by  any  to 
be  entered  into  unadvisedly  or  lightly/' 

The  voice  was  in  the  drawing-room,  Lily 
decided,  as  she  stepped  into  the  library.  "But 
reverently,  discreetly,  advisedly,  soberly  and 
in  the  fear  of  God"  the  voice  went  on.  Who 
was  this  talking  like  a  clergyman?  the  girl 
thought.  "Into  this  holy  estate  these  two  per- 
sons present  come  now  to  be  joined/'  "Why," 
gasped  the  girl,  "it  is  the  marriage  service. 

Who "     She  rushed  across  the  room  and 

peered  through  the  half -parted  portieres  into 
the  drawing-room.  "If  any  man  can  show 

just  cause "  the  oily  voice  glided  glibly 

along,  but  Lily  heard  no  more.     She  saw  in 

186 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

one  intense  glance,  her  guardian,  erect,  stern, 
white  as  death;  her  mother  softly  weeping; 
Gerald,  defiant,  black  of  brow,  the  sneer  on  his 
lips  more  marked  than  ever ;  a  slight,  trembling 
figure  at  his  side ;  beyond,  the  grim  old  lawyer 
with  parchment  face ;  and  closer  at  hand,  quite 
back  by  the  archway,  a  tall,  strong  figure — a 
clean-cut,  sorrowful  face  and  embarrassed, 
downcast  eyes. 

At  the  inarticulate  exclamation  the  girl  gave, 
this  man  looked  up  and  saw  her  startled  face 
and  questioning  eyes.  He  hesitated  a  moment, 
then,  with  an  air  of  decision,  came  swiftly  for- 
ward and  drew  the  curtains  together,  thus  com- 
pletely shutting  out  the  scene  from  Lily's 
vision. 

The  girl  turned  and  weakly  groped  her  way 
to  a  chair.  She  sank  into  it  and  closed  her 
eyes.  So  Jerry  was  being  married — and  not 
to  her — was  her  first  thought. 

"I  require  and  charge  you  both "  She 

could  hear  the  voice  faintly  nowr,  muffled  as  it 
was  by  the  heavy  portieres.  How  strange  it 

187 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

all  was!  The  girl  seemed  to  be  in  a  dream — 
a  phantasy — and  all  those  people  yonder — her 
guardian,  her  mother,  Jerry,  the  unknown, 
Jack — all  seemed  like  shadows.  A  line  from 
a  play  she  had  recently  seen  suddenly  flashed 
through  her  mind:  "We  are  such  stuff  as 
dreams  are  made  on."  She  tried  to  rouse  her- 
self to  the  situation,  but  a  strange  lethargy 
had  seized  her  senses.  The  droning  voice 
seemed  to  hypnotize  her.  "The  stuff  of  dreams 
— the  stuff  of  dreams,"  she  repeated  over  and 

over. 

****** 

She  was  suddenly  conscious  that  the  voice 
had  ceased.  It  was  all  over,  then.  Jerry  was 
married — and  she  was  saved!  Her  blood 
leaped  again  through  her  veins  at  the  thought. 
With  profound  relief  she  realized  she  was  free 
— free  to  live — to  love — ah!  was  she?  What 
was  it  Jerry  had  said?  His  mocking  voice 
rang  again  in  her  ears.  "Why,  Jack  is  as 
much  a  man  of  the  world  as  I  am.  He's  a 
sinner,  too — aren't  you,  Jack?" 

188 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

Lily  sprang  up,  her  heart  beating  to  suffo- 
cation, her  hands  over  her  ears  to  shut  out  the 
echo  of  those  hateful  words.  They  were  the 
knell  of  her  hopes,  the  passing  bell  of  her  joy. 
The  portieres  parted  and  her  mother  came  in 
from  the  drawing-room.  She  was  supporting 
Kitty,  who  was  sobbing  hysterically.  "There, 
there,  child,"  she  was  saying,  "it's  over.  Do 
not  give  way  now.  You  have  been  so  brave." 

Lily  regarded  Mrs.  Adriance  in  amazement. 
Was  this  sympathetic,  helpful  woman,  sudden- 
ly grown  a  shield  and  aid  to  this  half-fainting, 
wretched  girl,  her  little,  frivolous,  pink-and- 
white  mother — her  dainty,  fragile  bit  of  Dres- 
den china? 

Mrs.  Adriance  suddenly  saw  her  daughter's 
puzzled  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  She  crimsoned. 
"Lily,"  she  faltered,  "you  here?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Lily,  simply.  "I  heard 
it  all." 

Mrs.  Adriance  hesitated,  glancing  from  one 
girl  to  the  other;  then,  with  sudden  resolu- 
tion, led  Kitty  to  Lily. 

189 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"Lily,"  she  said,  her  voice  trembling  as  she 
spoke,  "Lily — this  is — Gerald's  wife." 

Lily  looked  steadfastly  at  the  pale,  tear- 
stained  face.  A  great  wave  of  divine  com- 
passion swept  over  her.  She  bent  forward  and 
opened  her  arms.  "Then  you  are  my  sister," 
she  said.  She  drew  Kitty  to  her  heart  and 
kissed  her. 

Sunderland  and  the  others  came  in  at  this 
moment  from  the  drawing-room.  The  master 
of  the  house  stopped  short  at  sight  of  the  two 
girls  clinging  to  each  other.  The  tears  rushed 
to  his  eyes,  but  he  controlled  himself  by  a  tre- 
mendous effort,  as  Gerald,  pushing  his  way 
violently  through  the  little  group,  turned  on 
him  with  an  enraged  look.  "Well,  you  have 
had  your  way,"  he  stormed.  "I  hope  you  are 
satisfied  with  this  morning's  work.  I  have 
obeyed  you.  I  have  married  this  girl  whom  I 
loathe " 

Kitty  started  as  if  struck  by  a  white-hot 
lash.  "Oh,  Jerry,"  she  moaned. 

But  Gerald  went  on,  stung  by  his  outraged 
190 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

self-love,  his  mutilated  pride — above  all  by  the 
presence  of  the  girl  whom,  having  lost,  he  de- 
sired more  passionately  than  ever.  "Yes,  I 
have  married  her,"  he  snarled.  "But  let  me 
tell  you  one  thing — I  will  never  live  with  her 

a  day — no!  not  an  hour " 

Kitty  suddenly  withdrew  from  Lily's  kind- 
ly, detaining  arm  and  came  resolutely  for- 
ward, speaking  with  a  simple  pathos  that 
touched  them  all.  "You  need  not,  Jerry,"  she 
said.  "Oh,  I  did  not  dream  you  hated  me. 
Had  I,  you  should  never  have  married  me.  I 
thought  your  heart  was  still  mine — that  you 
would  come  back  to  me.  But  now  I  see  the 
truth.  I  was  wrong  to  come  here  and  make 
so  much  trouble.  It  would  have  been  better 
for  me  to  have  borne  it  alone.  I — I  hope  you 
will  all  forgive  me,"  with  a  timid,  appealing 

glance.    "I  will  go  now,  at  once.    I  will  work 

i 

for  our  child.  You  have  given  him  a  name — 
that  is  enough — you  shall  do  nothing  more 
for  him."  She  turned  toward  the  door. 

191 


But  Sunderland  crossed  quickly  to  inter- 
cept her.  "Wait  a  moment,  daughter,"  he 
said,  with  a  peculiar,  lingering  emphasis' on  the 
word.  He  turned  a  white,  denunciatory  face 
toward  his  son.  "Gerald,"  he  said,  "I  have 
sought  to  rouse  one  spark  of  manhood,  one 
vestige  of  decency  in  your  sodden  soul.  I  have 
clung  to  you  with  the  desperation  of  a  mur- 
dered love.  It  has  been  to  no  purpose."  His 
voice  rose  tempestuously.  "Now  the  tables 
shall  be  turned.  It  will  not  be  your  wife — this 
poor  child — who  shall  go  out  to  be  buffeted 
and  knocked  about — to  become  the  sport  of 
every  derisive  finger,  the  butt  of  every  foul, 
lying  tongue.  No,  it  is  not  she  who  shall  go. 
It  is  you." 

"Father!"  burst  from  Gerald,  appalled  at 
the  whirlwind  he  had  invoked. 

"Do  not  call  me  father,"  cried  Sunderland, 
now  quite  beside  himself.  "I  am  no  longer  a 
father.  I  am  a  judge!  There  is  my  door. 
Go!" 

192 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

Gerald  looked  steadily  at  Sunderland  for  an 
instant  and  then  without  one  word  of  protest 
strode  defiantly  from  the  room. 


193 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"What!   wouldst   thou  have   a    serpent    sting   thee 
twice?" 

WITH  an  inferno  seething  and  boiling  in  his 
heart,  Gerald  went  to  his  apartments,  rang 
furiously  for  his  man  and  ordered  him  to  pack 
his  trunks  at  once.  He  tore  down  prints  and 
photographs  from  his  walls  and  demolished 
them  before  the  astonished  eyes  of  the  valet. 
Crystal  and  silver  articles  from  his  dressing- 
table,  he  flung  upon  the  open  hearth,  where 
they  crashed  into  fragments.  He  swept 
through  the  rooms  like  a  cyclone,  destroying 
everything  he  did  not  wish  to  take  away. 
"Get  me  a  cab!"  he  said  abruptly  when  he 
had  made  all  the  havoc  he  could.  "Am  I  to 
go  with  you,  sir?"  the  man  asked  fearfully, 
for  the  sight  of  his  young  master  on  the  ram- 

194 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

page,  was  one  not  calculated  to  inspire  confi- 
dence in  his  breast.  "No,"  was  the  curt  reply. 
"You  will  have  to  find  another  situation.  I 
shall  have  no  further  use  for  you." 

As  he  passed  through  the  upper  hall  on  his 
way  to  his  cab,  Gerald  chanced  to  glance 
through  a  half -open  door.  Upon  a  vast  ma- 
hogany bed  in  the  room  beyond,  in  a  heap  of 
laces  and  soft  flannels,  lay  his  little  son,  asleep. 
He  had  not  dreamed  that  the  child  was  already 
in  the  house,  and  the  sight  of  the  infant  added 
fuel  to  his  wrath.  He  paused  and  regarded 
the  sleeping  child  with  a  black  scowl.  He  had 
no  love  for  it.  He  had  scarcely  looked  at  it 
since  its  birth.  It  was  an  interloper  that  had 
ruined  all  his  plans,  he  thought.  "Were  it  not 
for  that  brat,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  should 
not  now  be  kicked  out  of  my  father's  house. 
If  it  were  out  of  the  way "  He  never  fin- 
ished the  sentence,  but  a  fiendish  smile  curled 
his  scornful  lips.  He  went  on  down  the  stairs, 
clanged  the  great  hall  door  behind  him,  sprang 
into  the  waiting  cab  and  drove  rapidly  away. 

195 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

He  went  to  his  bank  and  drew  out  all  of  the 
money  placed  to  his  credit  there.  Next,  he 
drove  to  the  Grand  Central  Station,  and 
bought  a  ticket  and  section  for  Chicago.  Look- 
ing at  his  watch  he  saw  that  it  was  nearly  two 
o'clock.  He  dismissed  the  cab  and  went  to 
luncheon  at  the  Waldorf.  He  drank  heavily 
and  ate  little.  But  he  constantly  studied  plans 
for  revenge.  "I  will  be  even  with  them  all," 
he  muttered.  "I  have  a  long  score  to  settle. 
I  think,"  he  concluded  as  he  finished  his  last 
glass  of  champagne,  "that  I  will  begin  with 
Trix." 

Calling  another  cab,  he  gave  the  man  the 
name  of  a  fashionable  apartment  hotel  uptown. 
He  was  well  known  here  and  the  sleek  clerk 
behind  the  desk  nodded  affably.  "You  need 
not  announce  me,"  he  said  to  that  functionary. 
"Mrs.  Evans  is  expecting  me." 

Beatrice  had  just  risen  from  her  desk  as  he 
was  shown  in.  She  turned  abruptly  at  sound 
of  a  step  and  faced  him.  All  the  color  died 
out  from  her  face  as  she  saw  him.  He  had 

196 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

come  to  upbraid  her,  to  revenge  himself,  she 
thought.  Well,  he  should  find  her  ready.  She 
would  not  flinch  at  his  reproaches.  She  would 
glory  in  the  ruin  she  had  made.  But  to  her 
amazement  Gerald  approached  her,  smiling 
softly  in  her  eyes.  "Trix,"  he  murmured,  with 
all  the  fire  and  fascination  he  could  so  effective- 
ly throw  into  his  voice,  "Trix,  I  never  realized 
until  last  night  how  much  you  loved  me. 
You  preferred  to  destroy  me  rather  than  let 
another  woman  marry  me.  And  I — I  have 
never  admired  you  so  much  as  now."  He 
caught  her  hands  in  his.  "After  all,  Trix,  it 
is  you  who  are  my  mate — my  superb,  my  splen- 
did tigress.  It  is  you  who  know  how  to  love." 
He  drew  her  panting  and  sobbing  to  his  breast 
and  kissed  her  passionately.  "I  have  come 
back  to  you,"  he  breathed  tenderly.  "I  am  not 
going  to  marry  that  undeveloped  school-girl. 
Henceforth,  my  own,  we  shall  live  for  each 
other." 

She  was  completely  subjugated  afresh — his 
thrall,  his  dupe.    For  hours  he  played  with  her, 

197 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

removing  her  doubts,  assuring  her  of  his  devo- 
tion, caressing  her  hair,  pressing  burning  kisses 
on  her  lips,  raising  her  to  a  pinnacle  of  happi- 
ness. 

It  was  dusk  when  he  rose  to  leave  her.  She 
threw  herself  in  his  arms,  looking  up  at  him 
with  adoring,  passionate  eyes.  "My  love,"  she 
sighed,  "how  happy  we  have  been.  When  shall 
I  see  you  again?" 

He  smiled  in  her  face.  "Never!"  he  mut- 
tered; "you  fool!"  He  flung  her  brutally  from 
him.  She  fell  prone  upon  the  floor,  bruised, 
stunned,  half- fainting.  He  turned  at  the  door 
and  looked  at  her  as  Lucifer  may  have  looked 
at  some  rival  fallen  angel.  "That  for  the  cut 
you  gave  me,"  he  said  grimly.  Then  he  was 
gone.  He  went  into  the  cafe  and  drank  deep- 
ly of  brandy-and-water.  "Score  one!"  he  mut- 
tered as  he  drained  his  glass.  Then  refilling 
another  he  held  it  up  to  the  light.  "And  now," 
he  said  with  a  cruel  smile,  "now — for  my  dear 
wife." 

It  was  close  to  midnight  when  he  let  himself 
198 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

softly  into  the  house  with  the  key  he  had  not 
relinquished.  The  house  was  silent  and  dark, 
save  for  one  dim  light  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
Stealthily  he  groped  his  way  to  the  door  of 
Kitty's  chamber  and  tried  it.  To  his  joy  it 
yielded  to  his  touch.  He  opened  it  and  en- 
tered. 

There  was  a  night  lamp  burning  in  the  ad- 
joining dressing-room,  which  threw  a  subdued 
light  in  the  chamber.  He  went  softly  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed  and  stood  regarding  his  wife 
and  child.  Kitty  was  sleeping  the  heavy  sleep 
that  only  the  physically  and  mentally  exhaust- 
ed know.  He  could  see  the  traces  of  tears  onher 
face.  But  Iris  heart  hardened  against  her.  How 
was  it  he  had  never  been  able  to  control  her  as 
he  had  others?  Why  had  she  demanded  so 
much?  Why  had  she  not  lazily  dallied  along 
the  primrose  path  with  him,  content  with  the 
roses  and  lilies  he  would  have  given  her?  Why 
must  she  have  thrust  her  claims  upon  his  father 
and  caused  all  this  frightful  upheaval?  Ah, 
well,  he  had  his  score  to  settle  with  her. 

199 


He  stooped  suddenly  and  lifting  the  rosy 
little  baby  from  her  side,  hastily  caught  up  a 
long  white  cloak  near  at  hand,  and  folding  the 
child  in  it,  quickly  and  quietly  retraced  his 
steps.  As  he  left  the  house  he  stepped  into  a 
waiting  carriage,  which  rapidly  carried  him  to 
a  house  on  the  East  Side.  In  this  house  he  left 
the  child  in  the  care  of  a  woman  who  asked  no 
questions  providing  her  palm  was  well  oiled. 

Quite  satisfied  with  his  day's  work,  Gerald 
took  the  midnight  train  for  Chicago.  Thence 
he  went  to  Denver  and  lost  himself  amid  the 
Rockies. 

At  dawn  Kitty  wakened  and  at  once  turned 
to  lift  her  child.  Her  hands  groped  uncertain- 
ly at  first,  then  frantically  tore  at  the  heaped 
up  pillows  and  silken  coverlid.  Presently  her 
screams  rang  through  the  great  house.  Sun- 
derland,  hastily  summoned,  saw  her  wild-eyed, 
trembling,  frenzied.  "My  baby,  my  baby!" 
she  cried  in  a  voice  that  pierced  his  heart,  and 
fell  like  a  dead  woman  at  his  feet. 

200 


CHAPTER  XX 

"Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  or  never  parted, 
We  had  na'er  been  broken-hearted." 

AFTER  leaving  Sunderland's  house,  Mrs. 
Adriance  and  Lily  drove  to  a  steamship  office 
and  booked  their  passage  for  the  following 
Saturday.  This  done,  they  went  to  the  St. 
Regis  and  shut  themselves  up  in  their  apart- 
ments, refusing  to  see  any  one. 

The  news  of  the  rupture  had  blown  like  wild- 
fire about  the  town.  The  papers  devoted  col- 
umns to  this  scandal  of  high  life,  and  report- 
ers besieged  the  Sunderland  mansion  and  the 
hotel  where  the  mother  and  daughter  had  taken 
refuge.  Sensible,  sane  people  grew  unutter- 
ably wearied  of  the  daily,  sensational  stories 

201 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

about  all  parties  concerned,  but  the  great  mass 
of  the  scandal-loving  community  greedily  ab- 
sorbed the  luscious  tidbits.  When  it  became 
known  that  the  child  had  been  stolen,  the  sen- 
sation grew  to  prodigious  proportions,  and 
journals  of  lurid  character  sent  out  their  alert, 
keen-eyed  young  men  to  find  the  infant.  But 
all  to  no  purpose.  Gerald  had  selected  a  dis- 
creet guardian  for  the  child.  The  woman, 
alarmed  at  the  hue  and  cry,  remained  closely 
concealed,  until  the  excitement  had  somewhat 
abated.  Then,  packing  her  worldly  belong- 
ings, she  took  the  baby  and  left  New  York  for 
the  southwestern  part  of  Colorado,  where 
her  sister  and  brother-in-law  owned  a  small 
ranch.  And  so  the  heir  to  the  Sunderland  mil- 
lions vanished  as  from  the  face  of  the  earth  and 
its  abduction  remained  one  of  the  many  mys- 
teries of  the  great  city. 

The  night  before  the  White  Star  steamship 
on  which  they  had  taken  passage  was  to  sail, 
Mrs.  Adriance  and  Lily  were  dining  in  their 
apartments  when  a  note  was  brought  to  the 

202 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

girl.  She  crimsoned  at  sight  of  the  handwrit- 
ing and  hesitated  a  moment  before  opening 
it.  At  last  she  read  it. 

"I  have  tried  again  and  again  to  see  you," 
it  ran,  "but  have  met  with  persistent  refusal. 
I  see  you  are  booked  to  sail  to-morrow.  Will 
you  not  at  least  permit  me  to  say  good-by?" 

Lily  passed  the  note  to  Mrs.  Adriance,  who 
read  it  silently.  "I  cannot  quite  see,  Lily," 
she  said  as  she  folded  it  up,  "why  you  should 
not  receive  Mr.  Tyson.  He  was  most  kind 
during  a  very  trying  ordeal.  It  seems  rather 
indecent,  I  must  say,  to  shut  our  door  in  his 
face." 

"Mother,"  returned  Lily  with  studied  calm- 
ness, "Jack — Mr.  Tyson  loves  me.  He  wishes 
to  marry  me." 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  fluttered  her  mother.  "Well, 
perhaps  it  might  be  the  best  thing  under  the 
circumstances ' ' 

"Mother!"  cried  the  girl  desperately.  She 
rose  from  the  table,  and,  going  to  Mrs.  Adri- 
ance, knelt  by  her  and  put  her  arm  about  her. 

203 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"Mother,  dear,"  she  repeated  earnestly,  "I  beg 
you  will  not  speak  to  me  of  marriage.  I — I 
cannot  endure  the  thought  of  it." 

"Yes;  but  Lily,  you  know,  you  must  marry 
some  day,"  urged  Mrs.  Adriance.  "I  cannot 
live  forever,  and  you  must  have  a  protector. 
Of  course,  Mr.  Tyson  is  not  wealthy,  but  you 
have  quite  enough  for  both." 

"Oh,  mother,  dear,  hush!"  said  Lily,  gently. 
"You  do  not  understand.  Cannot  you  see, 
dear,  that  I  have  been  beaten  and  bruised  and 
that  I  must  have  time  to  rest  and  think  it  all 
out?"  She  laid  her  head  on  her  mother's  breast. 
"I  want  to  go  away  from  it  all — I  want  just 
to  be  with  you,  mamma,  and  forget — if  I 
can "  Her  voice  wavered  and  broke. 

"Yes,  darling,  you  shall,"  cried  her  mother 
impulsively,  catching  her  to  her  heart.  "Lily, 
you  have  twice  the  sense  I  have.  It  seems  I 
have  made  a  fine  mess  of  your  life.  I  will  not 
attempt  again  to  dictate  your  future.  But  I 
would  see  Mr.  Tyson,"  she  added.  "He  is  an 

.** 

estimable  man.    He  was  always  so  serious  and 

204 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

courteous.  Not  at  all  like  Jerry."  She  sighed 
heavily.  "He  was  so  flippant  and  at  times 
positively  rude — yes,  I  may  say,  insolent,  my 
dear.  I  fear  dear  George  indulged  him  too 
much."  She  sighed  again  and  her  jeweled 
hand  smoothed  her  daughter's  hair  absently. 

Lily  left  her  mother  ruminating  upon  the 
past  and  sent  down  word  that  she  would  receive 
Tyson. 

As  he  came  into  their  drawing-room,  per- 
fectly groomed,  faultless  in  his  dinner  dress, 
altogether  such  a  splendid  specimen  of  man- 
hood, the  girl  felt  her  heart  contract  with  a 
sudden  sharp  pain.  She  wondered  if  she  were 
going  to  be  strong  enough  to  keep  her  resolu- 
tions. All  the  heart  of  her  longed  for  him, 
but  her  mind  sternly  forbade  any  compromise. 
He  came  swiftly  to  her  and  took  both  her 
hands,  "Lily,"  he  said  intensely,  "I  did  not 
dream  that  you  were  so  cruel." 

"I — cruel  ?"    She  attempted  to  spar  for  time. 

"Yes,  cruel,"  he  repeated  firmly.  "You  must 
know  what  suspense  I  have  endured  since  that 

205 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

dreadful  morning.  And  you  have  barricaded 
yourself  in  your  citadel  and  have  absolutely 
disregarded  my  white  flag.  Look  at  me.  Do 
you  mean  that  you  would  have  gone  without 
seeing  me?" 

"I  thought  it  was  best,"  she  replied,  with- 
drawing her  hands  and  retiring  to  a  safe  dis- 
tance. 

At  her  tone,  he  stood,  pained  and  white. 
"You  do  not  love  me,  then?"  he  questioned. 

"And  yet— I  thought— I  hoped "  He 

paused,  his  eyes  regarding  her  with  sad  won- 
der. 

"I  did  love  you,"  she  bravely  replied; 
"but " 

"But  what  has  come  between  us,  then?"  he 
demanded,  going  toward  her.  "Why  should 
I  not  be  with  you  now,  helping  you  to  face 
this  distressing  affair?  My  place  is  at  your 
side,  dearest." 

"Jack,"  said  Lily,  earnestly,  "what  is  this 
terrible  thing  called  love  which  seems  to  trans- 
form a  man  into  a  beast?  Which  gives  a  man 

206 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

license  to  be  cruel  to  the  woman  he  says  he 
loves?  Oh,  I  will  not  deceive  you.  I  am  hor- 
rified of  love — I  want  no  more  of  it — the  very 
word  turns  me  faint "  She  paused  in  agi- 
tation and  threw  herself  in  a  chair.  She  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

Tyson  went  to  her  and  taking  her  hand  in 
his  gently  caressed  it.  "Lily,"  he  said,  "be- 
cause you  have  cast  your  pearls  before  swine 
must  you  assume  that  the  world  is  filled  with 
such  creatures?  Ah,  Lily,  darling,  do  not  let 
us  argue  nor  analyze.  You  know  that  I  rever- 
ence, adore  you.  You  say  that  you  have  loved 
me — love  me  again,  dearest."  His  dark  head 
bent  over  her,  his  compelling  eyes  drew  her. 
Once  again  she  experienced  that  vague,  wild, 
sweet  pain,  that  strange  desire  to  let  go,  to 
float  along  into  an  unruffled  sea  of  happiness. 
Suddenly  Gerald's  accusing  words  sounded 
like  a  tocsin  in  her  ears.  She  sprang  up  and 
confronted  him,  white  and  trembling.  "Do 
you  remember  what  Gerald  said?"  she  demand- 
ed. "Is  it  true?  Are  you  no  better  than  other 

207 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

men?  Can  you  offer  me  as  pure  a  love  as  you 
would  wish  me  to  give  you?" 

Tyson  turned  cold.  Visions  of  gilded  dal- 
liance rose  before  him.  Sweet,  wanton  laugh- 
ter rang  in  his  ears,  pretty,  painted  faces  swam 
before  him,  white,  curling  fingers  beckoned 
him.  "Lily,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "I  will  not  be 
a  hypocrite,  whatever  else  I  have  been.  I  am 
a  man  of  the  world  in  all  that  term  implies. 
But  I  have  tried  to  be  fairly  decent  and  honor- 
able." 

"Decent  and  honorable!"  she  broke  in. 
"That  is  enough!  As  if  one  could  be  decent 
and  honorable  in  those  affairs.  I  beg  you  to 
go  at  once  and  spare  me  any  further  words." 

"Lily,"  he  pleaded,  "you  do  not  mean  it? 
You  cannot.  You  will  not  let  the  follies  of  my 
youth  stand  between  us.  Lily,  you  do  not  un- 
derstand. A  man  is  subjected  to  great  temp- 
tations— he  is  differently  situated " 

"Would  you  forgive  me?"  she  scornfully 
questioned. 

"Ah,  Lily — that  is  quite  another  matter." 
208 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Mr.  Tyson,  will  you  go?"  Her  voice  cut 
him  like  a  knife.  He  drew  himself  up  proud- 
ly, made  her  a  profound  salutation  and  crossed 
to  the  door.  At  the  threshold  he  turned  and 
looked  at  her  with  one,  long,  reproachful 
glance,  a  look  that  burned  into  her  soul.  She 
waited  until  the  door  closed  behind  him,  then 
fell,  face  downward,  upon  the  couch  and  lay 
there  in  an  agony  of  grief  and  despair. 

"I  have  done  right — I  have  done  right," 
over  and  over  she  persuaded  herself.  "But  I 
have  broken  my  heart.  Oh,  I  love  him — I  love 
mini" 


209 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"Satan;  so  call  him  now,  his  former  name  is  heard 
no  more  in  heaven." 

THREE  years  later,  Lucifer,  Jr.  rode  out  of 
the  corral  on  his  ranch,  one  hot  July  morning, 
mounted  on  a  bronco  as  wicked  looking  as  his 
master.  Lucifer,  Jr.  had  not  yet  reached  thirty 
years,  but  in  his  handsome  face  flamed  the  red 
flag  of  profligacy  and  dissipation.  Deep  lines 
under  the  blue  eyes  told  of  sleepless  nights; 
purple  veins  in  the  bronzed  face  blazoned  deep 
drinking,  while  across  one  cheek  zigzagged  a 
scar,  livid  for  the  most  part,  but  flushing  a 
deep  crimson  whenever  he  was  enraged.  The 
boys  had  never  dared  to  chaff  him  about  that 
scar.  He  had  borne  it  when  he  first  appeared 
in  Brimstone  Gulch,  dropping  from  Heaven 
knows  where! — a  tenderfoot  surely,  but  such 
a  tenderfoot  as  the  camp  had  never  seen.  The 

210 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

oldest  and  toughest  inhabitant  could  not  recall 
a  man  who  could  drink  deeper,  play  a  more 
deadly  game  of  poker  or  curse  more  pictur- 
esquely. His  beautiful  face,  marred  only  by 
the  white  scar,  and  his  elegant  figure,  com- 
manded admiration  from  all  the  camp.  At  the 
first,  some  of  the  professional  bad  men  of  the 
Gulch  had  been  disposed  to  trifle  with  him, 
but  they  soon  discovered  they  had  a  dangerous 
man  to  meet.  Nick  Fargo — as  he  called  him- 
self— Lucifer,  Jr.,  as  he  soon  came  to  be 
known — was  found  to  be  absolutely  Satanic  in 
his  methods  of  revenge.  Moreover,  his  fits  of 
fury  terrified  the  worst  men  in  that  section. 
At  times  he  seemed  to  be  obsessed  by  a  demon, 
when,  mounted  on  a  bronco  that  refused  no 
command,  he  rode  up  and  down  the  most 
frightful  trails  as  if  upon  the  wings  of  the 
wind,  shouting,  blaspheming,  defying  death. 

There  were  all  sorts  of  rumors  about  this 
mysterious  stranger.  It  was  whispered  that  he 
had  killed  a  man  somewhere  in  the  East  and 
had  come  to  Colorado  to  hide  from  the  law. 

211 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Indeed,  one  day,  Huerfano  Bill  plucked  up 
sufficient  courage  to  ask  him  about  it.  It  was 
during  one  of  Lucifer,  Jr.'s  most  appalling 
tantrums.  He  had  been  drinking  all  the  morn- 
ing in  Toby  Belcher's  saloon,  he  had  insulted 
every  man  present  by  his  overbearing  manner, 
he  had  cursed  and  blasphemed  to  that  extent 
that  even  Faro  Jim's  icy  blood  had  turned 
colder. 

As  he  came  reeling  out  of  Toby's  and  went 
to  mount  his  horse,  pawing  and  stamping  un- 
easily before  the  saloon,  Huerfano  Bill,  who 
had  killed  his  man  in  Albuquerque,  said  confi- 
dentially to  him :  "Say,  Lucifer,  reckon  you're 
thinkin'  of  him  this  mornin' — eh?" 

"Him?"  returned  Fargo,  staring  with  big, 
insolent  eyes  at  Bill.  "Him?  Who  in  hell  do 
you  mean?" 

"The  feller  you  killed  back  East,"  returned 
Bill,  edging  a  little  away. 

Fargo  had  leaped  to  his  saddle  and  gathered 
up  the  reins,  preparatory  to  departure.  He 
bent  down  now  toward  Bill  and  hissed:  "Yes 

212 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

— I  murdered  a  man.    Do  you  want  to  know 
who  it  was?" 

"Wai,  yes,  if  ye've  no  objection,"  politely 
began  Bill. 

"It  was  myself — damn  you! — myself,"  sav- 
agely retorted  Fargo  as  he  swung  his  whip 
over  his  head.  "I  am  a  dead  man,  Bill — do 
you  hear? — a  dead  man!" 

An  awful  light  leaped  into  his  eyes,  his  short 
upper  lip  curled  back  from  his  white  teeth, 
and  with  a  string  of  oaths  that  appalled  even 
the  criminal  and  outcast  before  him,  he  was 
off  and  away  up  the  trail  toward  timber  line. 
They  watched  him  up  the  mountain,  himself 
and  horse  sharply  silhouetted  against  the  sky, 
with  a  feeling  of  mingled  terror  and  awe. 

"He's  plumb  locoed!"  said  Huerfano  Bill, 
solemnly.  Then  he  shivered,  and,  remember- 
ing his  Spanish  wife,  furtively  crossed  himself. 
"My  Gawd!"  he  muttered;  "did  ye  hear  him, 
boys?  He  said  he  was  a  dead  man.  Pretty 
lively  corpse  allee  samee,"  he  added  thought- 
fully. 

213 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Lucifer,  Jr.'s  ranch  lay  to  the  southwest  of 
Brimstone  Gulch  in  the  valley  of  the  La  Plata. 
He  had  built  for  himself  a  long,  low  adobe 
which  he  had  furnished  with  Navajo  blankets, 
hammocks,  cliff  house  pottery  and  Indian  bas- 
kets. In  the  disposal  of  these  curios,  he  had 
shown  wonderful  skill  and  taste.  From  Den- 
ver at  stated  intervals  came  liquors,  cigars  and 
various  delicacies.  The  orgies  at  this  ranch 
were  famous  throughout  the  Southwest.  But 
during  all  these  wild  revels,  it  was  always  ap- 
parent that  Lucifer,  Jr.  was  merely  distract- 
ing himself  with  his  companions.  He  always 
held  himself  above  the  others,  he  never  per- 
mitted familiarities.  "Damn  him!"  more  than 
one  of  his  cronies  often  growled.  "You'd  think 
he  had  been  king  of  England." 

This  morning  when  Nick  Fargo  rode  out 
from  his  ranch,  he  was  attired  as  for  a  gala 
occasion.  His  Mexican  saddle  and  bridle 
jingled  with  silver  adornments;  his  flapping, 
pearl-gray  sombrero  was  encrusted  with  silver 

214 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

embroidery.  His  *  'chaps"  were  of  the  finest 
buckskin,  his  jaunty  coat  of  brown  corduroy 
opened  over  a  shirt  of  exquisite  lawn  and  a 
sash  of  brilliant  hue,  in  which  was  stuck  a 
brace  of  pistols.  Nothing  so  splendid  had  ever 
come  over  the  range.  He  was  en  route  for  the 
Fourth  of  July  festivities  at  Brimstone  Gulch, 
where  were  to  endure,  not  for  a  day,  but,  ac- 
cording to  cowboy  custom,  for  a  week. 

Fargo  was  quite  sober  this  morning.  The 
glorious  air  served  as  a  bracer,  and  as  Dare- 
devil, his  beautiful  bronco,  the  finest  piece  of 
horseflesh  in  that  country,  loped  steadily  over 
the  mesa,  he  was  comparatively  satisfied  with 
himself  and  his  surroundings.  But  as  the  sun 
climbed  higher  and  the  great  mountains  loomed 
nearer,  the  awful  solitude  began  to  lay  its  op- 
pressive hand  upon  him  and  the  demon  of  un- 
rest to  stir  within  him. 

He  pulled  up  his  horse  almost  on  its  haunch- 
es and  lifted  his  sombrero  to  wipe  his  brow. 
The  clustering  blond  curls  were  beginning  to 
show  a  thread  of  silver  here  and  there.  The 

215 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

soft  blue  eyes  were  the  windows  of  a  torment- 
ed soul.  He  sighed  heavily,  then  spoke  aloud 
to  the  sky  and  the  mountains.  "God!"  he 
ejaculated.  "Must  I  spend  the  rest  of  my  life 
in  this  horrible  place?"  He  stared  about  at 
the  burning  sand,  the  prickly  shrubs  of  the 
desert  and  then  at  the  great  wall  of  mountains 
frowning  down  upon  him.  As  in  a  dream 
he  saw  the  sapphire  sea;  a  stretch  of  white 
beach;  a  glorious  ocean  driveway;  carriages 
filled  with  exquisite  women;  long,  dim,  cool 
streets ;  an  emerald  tennis  court  and  a  brilliant 
throng  of  refined,  charming  people;  a  casino 
gay  with  flags.  He  heard  music  and  sweet 
laughter  and  tinkling  glasses  and  rustle  of 
silken  robes.  All  that  was  what  he  had  lost. 
He  started  from  his  vision  and  looked  about 
at  the  desolation.  The  awful,  the  desperate 
loneliness  of  it  all  overwhelmed  him  as  never 
before.  "O  God,"  he  cried  aloud  again, 
"have  mercy  upon  me!" 

Before  him,  stretching  like  a  huge,  brazen 
serpent  in  the  sunlight,  glittered  the  rails  of 

216 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

the  Rio  Grande  Southern  Railway.  It  was  his 
deliverance,  he  thought.  He  might  take  it  at 
Dolores  or  Hesperus  and  go — where?  He 
could  never  go  back  to  all  he  had  thrown  away. 
No,  he  would  only  go  on  to  some  fresh  loneli- 
ness, some  new  barren  Sahara  of  the  soul.  He 
shuddered,  replaced  his  sombrero,  and,  gath- 
ering up  the  reins,  prepared  to  fare  on  to  Brim- 
stone Gulch. 

At  this  moment  he  was  arrested  by  a  sound. 
A  cry — a  strange  cry — almost  like  that  of  some 
young  animal  in  distress — suddenly  smote 
upon  his  ears.  "What  is  that?"  he  asked,  lis- 
tening. Once  more  he  heard  it — a  long-drawn, 
piteous  wail. 

"That  is  no  animal,"  he  muttered,  quite 
startled  now.  "That  is  a  human  being."  Again 
he  listened;  again  he  heard  it.  "Where  are 
you?"  he  shouted  suddenly.  An  echo  mocked 
at  him  from  a  mountain  wall.  Then  the  op- 
pressive silence  was  again  rent  by  the  plain- 
tive cry.  This  time  he  located  it.  Turning 

217 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

his  horse  quickly  to  the  right,  he  crossed  the 
track  and,  leaping  from  the  animal,  ran  hur- 
riedly along  toward  a  clump  of  cactus. 

There  suddenly  crept  toward  him  a  sobbing, 
quivering  child,  a  little  boy  between  three  and 
four,  holding  up  tiny,  appealing  hands.  Luci- 
fer, Jr.  bent  and  lifted  him  in  his  arms.  "Who 
are  you?  How  do  you  come  here?"  he  de- 
manded. 

The  weeping  child  made  no  reply,  but  laid 
his  exhausted  head  on  Fargo's  breast  and  put 
both  arms  about  his  neck,  clinging  desperately 
to  him.  And  at  the  touch  of  those  soft,  little 
hands,  something  new  and  strange  awoke  in 
Fargo's  wretched  heart.  He  trembled  and 
turned  crimson  as  he  soothed  and  patted  the 
helpless  little  creature  who  had  sought  refuge 
in  his  arms. 

He  drew  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped 
the  boy's  tear-stained  face.  He  carried  him  to 
Daredevil,  who  inquiringly  nosed  the  child. 
He  opened  his  saddle-bag  and  finding  a  bis- 
cuit gave  it  to  the  boy,  who  ate  it  as  if  half- 

218 


s  •  Presently  the  child   laughed   merrily  and  tried  to  take 
the  reins  from  Fargo' s  hands." 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

famished.  To  his  repeated  inquiries  as  to  how 
he  came  there  alone,  the  child  would  weep 
afresh  and  again  cling  to  Fargo  as  if  he  feared 
he  might  leave  him. 

He  saw  that  the  shock  of  his  abandonment 
in  the  desert  had  well-nigh  unhinged  the  child's 
mind.  "If  I  take  him  back  to  the  ranch,"  con- 
sidered Fargo,  "I  may  never  discover  to  whom 
he  belongs.  In  the  Gulch  I  may  hear  of  some 
one  who  has  lost  a  child." 

So  he  sat  the  boy  before  him  on  the  horse 
and  galloped  toward  his  destination.  Pres- 
ently the  child  laughed  merrily  and  tried  to 
take  the  reins  from  Fargo's  hands.  This 
pleased  Lucifer,  Jr.  "He's  a  game  little 
chap,"  he  said  aloud,  and,  as  he  spoke,  the 
child  looked  up  at  him  with  dark,  laughing 
eyes. 

Something  in  the  face  seemed  to  strike 
Fargo.  The  eyes — the  eyes — where  had  he 
seen  eyes  like  those?  He  seemed  to  be  enter- 
ing a  vast,  mysterious  wood — he  inhaled  the 
odor  of  pines — he  saw  a  blazing  camp-fire-^ 

219 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

some  one  was  beside  it,  who  turned  and  looked 
at  him  with  the  soft,  brown  eyes  of  a  deer 

Pickets  from  the  camp  had  been  out  all  the 
morning  watching  for  the  approach  of  Luci- 
fer, Jr.  The  fun  would  not  really  begin  until 
Fargo  should  arrive.  "He  is  coming!"  was  at 
last  signalled. 

Down  over  the  mountain  he  came,  a  gay  and 
gallant  figure  in  his  brilliant  costume.  But 
what  was  this?  Daredevil  was  coming  slowly, 
picking  his  way  daintily  down  the  treacherous 
trail.  The  watchers  in  the  valley  gasped  with 
distended  eyes.  What  was  it  Fargo  held  in  his 
arms?  Was  it  he  after  all? 

Suddenly  Huerf  ano  Bill,  who  had  been  post- 
ed far  up  the  trail,  came  flying  down  the  slope. 
His  face  was  alarmed,  his  eyes  were  popping 
from  his  head  as  he  stammered  clumsily:  "It 
sure  is  Lucifer,  boys,  but  what  new  flim-flam 
is  this?  Damn  me  for  a  liar  ef  he  hain't 
a-bringin'  a  kidl" 


220 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"Where  is  my  child?    An  echo  answers  'Where'?" 

As  FAEGO  flung  himself  from  his  saddle  and 
told  his  story  of  finding  the  child  alone  in  the 
desert,  men  listened  eagerly  with  bated  breath. 
When  he  had  finished,  Huerfano  Bill,  black- 
leg and  desperado,  turned  to  the  others. 
"Boys,"  he  said,  "somewhar  in  the  La  Platas 
there's  a  woman  a-breakin'  her  heart  fur  this 
kid.  We'd  orter  git  busy." 

A  shade  passed  over  Lucifer,  Jr.'s  face.  A 
specter  rose  from  its  grave  and  confronted 
him  with  denunciatory  eyes.  "Somewhar,  a 
woman's  heart  is  a-breakin'  fur  this  kid."  The 
very  words  of  this  bandit  accused  him.  Some- 
where, a  woman's  heart  had  broken  for  the 
child  of  which  she  had  been  so  cruelly  robbed. 

221 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

And  he  who  had  robbed  her — who  had  not  only 
stolen  but  inhumanly  abandoned  his  child — 
what  of  him?  If  these  men  before  him — these 
hardened,  lawless  men — were  to  know  the  enor- 
mity of  his  crime,  his  miserable  life  would  not 
be  worth  a  pin's  fee.  "Child-stealer — child- 
stealer!"  rang  in  his  ears.  To  do  him  justice, 
he  had  not  intended  to  forsake  the  boy.  Once 
or  twice  he  had  written  to  the  woman  with 
whom  he  had  left  the  infant,  and  enclosed 
money  for  its  care.  Then  a  silence  had  fallen 
and  he  did  not  know  whether  the  child  were 
living  or  dead.  It  might  be  growing  up  in  a 
city's  slums,  in  training  for  a  thief  or  mur- 
derer; it  might  be  lying  in  a  potter's  field. 

"Ye  hed  a  hard  ride,  didn't  ye,  Nick?" 
queried  Toby  Belcher.  "Ye  look  pale  as  death. 
Here,  booze  up!"  and  he  set  forth  a  bottle  of 
rankest  rye  upon  the  bar. 

Fargo  put  out  his  shaking  hand  to  pour  a 
glass,  when  he  felt  something  tugging  at  the 
fringe  of  his  leathern  "chaps."  He  looked 
down.  The  child  stood  there,  endeavoring  to 

222 


attract  his  attention.  He  held  up  his  arms 
with  an  appealing  gesture,  his  red  mouth  quiv- 
ering piteously.  Fargo  stooped  and  lifted  him 
upon  the  bar.  As  he  did  so,  he  pushed  the 
bottle  aside.  "I  reckon  I  won't  drink,  Toby," 
he  said.  "Someway  I  haven't  got  the  taste 
just  now." 

Toby  looked  at  him  in  solemn  surprise. 
"Thar  hain't  nothin'  wrong  with  ye,  is  thar, 
Nick?"  he  solicitously  asked. 

"No,"  returned  Lucifer,  Jr.,  as  he  bent  his 
head  over  the  boy;  "I'm  all  right,  Toby."  His 
voice  had  a  queer  sound. 

"Say,  he's  a  handsome  little  cuss,"  remarked 
Toby,  staring  at  the  child.  "What  eyes  he's 
got — big  as  a  Mexican's  and  jest  like  a  deer's." 
Like  a  deer's  eyes — ah,  yes!  Again  the  scent 
of  pines  assailed  Fargo's  senses — he  saw  the 
interminable  cathedral  aisles  of  a  vast  North- 
ern forest — again  the  camp-fire.  With  a  half- 
muttered  exclamation,  he  lifted  the  child  from 
the  bar  and  hastily  went  without  the  saloon. 

The  news  of  the  arrival  had  flown  about  the 
223 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

camp  and  all  the  women  were  running  to  see 
the  beautiful  child.  He  was  like  a  tiny  gypsy, 
with  his  great  brown  velvet  eyes,  clustering 
golden  curls,  and  cheeks  like  apples.  He  was 
very  shy  and  timid  and  would  have  nothing  to 
say  to  any  of  the  crowd,  but  clung  closely  to 
Lucifer,  Jr. 

After  a  long  time,  by  coaxing  and  bribing 
with  sweets,  he  was  induced  to  speak.  To  re- 
peated inquiries  as  to  his  name,  he  at  last 
vouchsafed  an  answer  which  sounded  like 
"Derry."  But  he  could  give  no  account  of 
himself  and  Fargo  would  not  have  him  teased. 
The  miners  and  cowboys  could  not  sufficiently 
admire  his  beauty  or  his  cunning  little  ways. 
They  crowded  about  him,  pressing  nuggets  and 
silver  buttons  upon  him  until  his  tiny  fists 
could  hold  no  more. 

All  day  Fargo  carried  him  and  played  with 
him.  Toward  night  his  long  lashes  began  to 
droop  heavily  over  his  great  eyes,  and  Brim- 
stone Gulch  was  edified  by  the  spectacle  of 
Lucifer,  Jr.  walking  up  and  down,  softly  sing- 

224 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

ing  him  to  sleep.  The  child  lay  contentedly 
in  his  arms,  one  little  hand  upflung  against 
Fargo's  brown  throat.  Lower  and  lower 
drooped  the  lashes  and  at  last  he  slept  on  the 
man's  heart. 

At  midnight,  one  of  the  scouts  who  had 
ridden  out  with  the  news  of  the  discovery  of  a 
lost  child,  returned.  "The  boy  belongs  to  a 
woman  staying  on  Belton's  ranch  over  toward 
Mancos,"  he  stated.  "She'd  been  up  to  Du- 
rango  with  him  and  come  back  by  the  mornin' 
train.  There  was  a  hot-box  an'  it  were  jest 
arter  thet  they  missed  him.  They  surmise  thet 
when  the  train  stopped  he  dumb  off.  He 
warn't  missed  fur  quite  some  time,  as  the 
woman  thought  he  sure  were  with  the  brake- 
man,  who'd  taken  a  great  fancy  to  him.  The 
train  backed  up  a  piece,  but,  hell!  mought  as 
well  look  fur  a  needle  in  a  haymow.  'Twar 
sure  providential  like  that  Nick  happened 
along,"  he  concluded. 

225 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"Are  they  coming  after  him?"  Fargo  asked, 
with  a  strange  sinking  at  the  heart. 

"Now,  thet's  what  gits  me,"  returned  the 
scout,  "war  the  onnatural  way  thet  thar 
woman  acted.  She  didn't  cry  nor  throw  no 
fits  as  a  mother'd  orter.  She  was  that  ca'm  I 
wanted  fur  to  shake  her.  Said  she  wur  glad 
the  boy  wur  found  an'  hoped  you  would  sure 
bring  him  over  when  you  could." 

Lucifer,  Jr.'s  heart  suddenly  lightened. 
Perhaps  the  woman  was  poor  and  would  be 
glad  to  relinquish  the  child  for  a  consideration. 
Someway  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  think 
of  parting  with  the  boy.  He  looked  down  at 
the  sleeping  child,  noted  his  perfect  form,  his 
lovely  hands  and  feet,  the  faultless  chiselling 
of  his  baby  features.  "He  is  a  thoroughbred," 
he  said  to  himself,  "and  I  am  going  to  keep 
him  if  I  can." 

Next  day  he  rode  to  Belton's  ranch.  The 
child  had  recovered  from  his  fright  and  chat- 
tered in  cunning  baby  patois  all  the  way. 
Fargo  allowed  him  to  handle  the  reins  at  times 

226 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

to  his  great  delight,  and  his  grave  importance 
at  these  moments  was  charming.  But  he  never 
forgot  to  turn  occasionally,  and,  throwing  his 
silken  head  back  against  Fargo's  breast,  reach 
up  his  hand  and  fondle  the  man's  face  above 
him.  And  always  at  the  touch  of  the  little 
hand  the  bold,  wicked  eyes  softened  and  some- 
thing sweet  and  strange  and  bitter  stirred  in 
the  tempestuous  heart. 

As  he  rode  up  to  the  door  of  the  lonely 
ranch  house,  two  men  and  three  or  four  women 
came  out  upon  the  porch,  and,  at  sight  of  him, 
one  of  the  women  shaded  her  eyes  and  looked 
steadily  at  him. 

"Here's  the  lost  boy!"  shouted  Fargo,  with 
an  attempt  at  cheerfulness.  "Which  is  his 
mother?" 

The  women  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled 
curiously.  No  one  answered  for  a  moment. 
Then  the  woman  who  had  shaded  her  eyes  came 
forward  and  spoke.  "I  am  the  woman  who 
takes  care  of  the  child,"  she  said.  "But  I  am 
not  his  mother." 

227 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Not  his  mother?"  exclaimed  Fargo  in  re- 
lief. This,  then,  accounted  for  her  apathy. 

"No,"  said  the  woman  slowly,  still  looking 
steadfastly  at  the  white  scar  on  Fargo's  cheek. 
"The  child  was  left  with  me  when  a  baby.  I 
don't  know  who  his  mother  was." 

The  scar  suddenly  flushed  a  deep  red. 
"Have  you  lived  here  long?"  questioned 
Fargo. 

"No,"  returned  the  woman,  still  slowly 
measuring  her  words.  "I  came  here  to  my 
sister's  about  three  years  ago — from — New 
York,"  she  suddenly  added.  "I  lived  at  num- 
ber —  East Street,  there." 

The  figure  on  horseback  before  her  sudden- 
ly stiffened.  The  face  became  a  stone  mask. 
The  insolent,  blue  eyes  stared  at  her  like  the 
sightless  eyes  of  the  dead.  The  woman  took 
a  step  or  two  nearer  him.  "I  know  you,"  she 
whispered.  "I  know  you — by  the  scar.  You 
brought  that  child  to  me." 

The  man  made  no  answer,  but  still  stared  at 
her  with  dreadful,  unseeing  eyes.  "There  was 

228 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

such  a  time  made  about  the  child  by  the 
papers,"  she  hurried  on,  "that  as  soon  as  I 
dared  I  left  New  York  and  came  here.  I  had 
two  or  three  letters  from  you.  Then  I  never 
heard  again.  I  am  awful  sorry,"  she  con- 
cluded, "that  I  ever  had  anything  to  do  with 
it.  It  was  a  terrible  piece  of  business." 

The  man  still  sat  as  if  carved  from  stone. 
His  face  was  so  ghastly,  so  awful  to  see,  that 
the  others  on  the  porch  began  to  remark  it. 
"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  asked  one  of 
the  men.  "Can't  he  speak?  Is  he  struck 
dumb?" 

Suddenly  the  stony  figure  quivered.  A  tiny 
hand  had  stolen  up  and  caressed  the  marble  of 
his  face.  And  at  the  touch,  the  man  shook  as 
if  in  an  ague  fit.  He  snatched  his  child  to  his 
heart,  and,  bowing  his  head  upon  the  beautiful 
face,  Lucifer,  Jr.  broke  into  a  passion  of  tears 
and  sobs. 


229 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"Oh,  call  back  yesterday — bid  time  return." 

A  GIEL  sat  on  the  balcony  of  a  tiny  inn  in 
the  valley  of  the  Lauterbrunnen,  late  on  a  mid- 
summer afternoon,  idly  glancing  over  a  novel. 
That  her  thoughts  were  straying  from  its  con- 
tents was  manifest,  as  she  often  glanced  away 
from  its  pages  up  toward  the  huge,  white  wall 
of  the  Bernese  Oberland.  The  Jungfrau  con- 
fronted her  with  its  chaste,  virginal  beauty. 
"After  all,  it  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
Alpine  peaks,"  she  said  to  herself;  "but,  ah! 
so  icy,  so  hard,  so  unfeeling!  It  makes  me 
shiver  to  look  at  it.  It  is  as  implacable,  as 
unforgiving  as  some  women — as — as  I  am," 
she  added  with  a  sudden  little  incatching  of 
her  breath  that  was  almost  a  sob. 

230 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

She  sat  silent  for  a  time,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  stupendous  height  towering  above  her.  The 
sun  sank  lower.  Its  golden  shafts  began  to 
play  upon  the  snowy  peak.  And  now  a  change 
seemed  to  come  upon  the  frigid  brow  of  the 
mountain.  A  roseate  flush  crept  slowly  across 
it,  transforming  its  frozen  splendor  into  a 
beauty  indescribably  soft  and  melting.  It  was 
as  if  the  stately  Jungfrau  blushed  at  the  auda- 
city of  her  departing  lover — blushed,  but 
yielded  to  his  bold,  tender  caresses. 

The  night  was  warm  and  languid.  Sweet 
odors  and  sounds  filled  the  swooning  air.  The 
cool  wind  that  had  risen  on  the  heights  had 
not  )Tet  reached  the  valley.  The  girl  sat  in  a 
reverie.  Dreams,  fancies,  memories  shifted 
through  her  mind.  Vague,  sweet  emotions 
stirred  her  pulses.  Her  moral  rigidity  flushed 
before  the  melting  rays  of  remembrance.  As 
in  a  dream  she  saw  herself  in  a  sumptuous 
room  filled  with  the  mingled  perfume  of  Russia 
leather  and  lilacs.  Far  off  sounded  the  enticing 
music  of  viols  and  harps.  Before  her  was  a 

231 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

face,  the  searching  brilliancy  of  whose  eyes 
moved  her  deeply.  She  closed  her  eyes  in  rap- 
ture and  felt  again  the  warm,  thrilling  kisses 
on  her  hands,  heard  once  more  the  deep,  ten- 
der voice  murmur  passionately:  "My  love — 
my  love!"  She  looked  up.  The  Jungfrau  was 
crimson  now. 

Once  again  that  same  face,  with  its  eyes 
grown  sad  and  reproachful,  swam  before  her. 
She  recalled  how  he  had  turned  at  the  door 
and  looked  at  her  with  one,  last,  despairing 
glance.  He  had  seemed  at  that  moment  the 
wraith  of  the  strong,  manly  lover,  the  beating 
of  whose  heart  she  had  heard,  when  for  one 
supreme  moment,  she  had  fled  to  him  for  pro- 
tection. That  shadow-like  glance  had  followed 
her  for  three  years.  She  could  never  banish 
it.  She  had  seen  it  through  the  veiled  dark- 
ness when  she  had  wakened  at  night.  It  had 
cried  to  her  with  voiceless  appeal.  "I  was 
cruel — heartless,"  she  murmured  now.  "I  was 
as  cold  as  this  terrible  mountain." 

Again  she  looked  up.  The  crimson  glow 
232 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

was  dying  now,  but  the  Jungfrau  loomed 
through  the  twilight  with  a  mellowed  pallor,  a 
tender  radiance,  like  that  often  seen  upon  the 
face  of  a  woman  who  has  loved  and  suffered. 
Lily  suddenly  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Adriance,  coming  to  the  window  a 
little  later,  saw  the  bowed  figure  sitting  alone 
in  the  twilight.  "Lily,  darling,"  she  cried  in 
dismay,  "are  you  ill?" 

"No  mother,"  replied  the  girl,  making  room 
for  Mrs.  Adriance  beside  her.  "Not  now.  I 
have  been  very  ill,  but  I  am  healed." 

Mrs.  Adriance  peered  at  her  through  the 
gloom.  "You,  Lily,"  she  cried  incredulously, 
"you  have  been  ill?  And  have  not  told  me? 
My  child,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Ah,  mother,  dear,"  Lily  answered,  "I  have 
been  ill  in  mind.  I  have  had  sick,  foolish  fan- 
cies. I  have  set  myself  up  as  a  god,  something 
too  fine  and  good  to  be  tainted  by  contact  with 
my  fellow  beings.  I  have  been  proud  of  my 
morality — my  virtue.  And  I  have  wickedly 
judged  others  who  could  not  withstand  certain 

233 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

temptations.    Bear  with  me,  mother,  dear,  for 
to-night  I  am  humbled  to  the  dust." 

"Lily,  you  speak  in  parables,"  cried  Mrs. 
Adriance.  "I  cannot  understand " 

"Ah,  yes,  mother,  for  I  have  been  taught  in 
parables,"  replied  the  girl.  "My  hard,  cold 
heart  has  been  softened  by  love.  I  have  come 
to  know  that  love  is  a  divine  thing — of  God 
and  sent  from  Him.  It  is  not  to  be  trifled 
writh,  mocked  at  and  repelled.  One  must  open 
the  windows  of  his  soul  and  let  the  glorious 
messenger  in." 

Long  the  mother  and  daughter  sat  there, 
hand  in  hand,  while  the  girl  poured  out  all  her 
heart,  her  sorrow,  her  doubts,  her  repentance. 
It  was  long  after  midnight  when  they  sepa- 
rated. 

"And  so,  dearest,  you  wish  to  go  home?" 
Mrs.  Adriance  asked  as  they  bade  each  other 
good-night. 

"Yes,  mother,"  was  the  low  reply;  "as  soon 
as  possible,  to  make  restitution — if  it  is  not  too 
late." 

234 


But  in  her  soul  she  knew  it  would  not  be 
too  late.  She  knew  that  she  would  find  the 
same  strong,  earnest  heart,  beating  for  her 
just  as  loyally  as  when  she  fled  to  it  for  shelter. 

After  extinguishing  the  light  in  her  room, 
Lily  went  to  her  window,  and,  drawing  aside 
the  curtain,  looked  out  once  more  upon  the 
Jungfrau.  The  moon  had  risen  and  in  its 
glory  the  mountain  stood  transfigured.  In 
sparkling,  golden  splendor,  it  was  a  bride 
adorned  for  her  husband — a  queen  waiting  for 
her  king.  And  above  its  brow,  like  a  diadem, 
glittered  the  great  white  stars. 


235 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"Long  is  the  way 
And  hard,  that  out  of  hell  leads  up  to  light." 

WITHIN  a  fortnight  after  he  had  found  his 
child,  Nick  Fargo  was  in  New  York.  He  had 
lost  no  time  in  forming  his  resolutions.  He 
had  called  a  few  of  his  particular  cronies  to- 
gether at  his  ranch,  and,  after  setting  the  child 
before  them,  had  said:  "Boys,  this  is  my 
son.  By  some  mysterious  agency  I  was  led 
to  him.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  have  sinned 
against  him,  against  his  mother  and  my  own 
father.  If  I  did,  you  would  shoot  me  here  in 
cold  blood  and  serve  me  right.  I  am  going 
back  now  to  beg  forgiveness  of  those  I  have 
wronged." 

The  rough  men  before  him  were  visibly  af- 
fected. They  looked  at  the  pallid  face  and 

236 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

reddened  eyes  of  the  speaker  and  wondered 
at  the  change  in  him.  Could  this  man,  whose 
scarred  face  showed  traces  of  tears,  who  spoke 
so  simply  and  earnestly,  be  the  master  spirit 
of  the  wild  revels  they  had  known?  One  and 
all  they  wrung  his  hand  and  struck  him  with 
uncouth  affection  on  the  shoulder,  for,  despite 
his  insolence  and  arrogance,  they  had  loved 
him — his  beauty,  his  grace,  his  daring,  and 
his  princely  air.  "He  wan't  one  of  us,  arter 
all,  boys,"  said  Huerfano  Bill,  cumbrously 
musing,  as  they  rode  back  to  the  Gulch.  "The 
devil  sure  hed  a  mortgage  on  his  soul,  but  he's 
paid  it  up." 

Nick  Fargo  registered  at  the  Waldorf  as 
"Gerald  Sunderland  and  son."  Within  three 
days  he  was  served  with  papers  in  a  suit 
brought  by  his  wife  for  the  recovery  of  her 
child.  Gerald  had  already  found  that  his 
father's  town  house  was  closed  and  the  family 
in  the  country.  But  their  exact  location  he 
did  not  discover  until  the  fourth  evening  of 
his  stay  in  town,  when  Walter  Maxwell's  card 

237 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

was  brought  him.  The  old  lawyer  greeted  him 
with  much  emotion.  He  had  been  Gerald's 
friend  throughout  everything.  Again  and 
again  had  he  pleaded  his  cause  with  Sunder- 
land.  "Thank  God!"  he  cried,  "you  have  come 
back.  Why  did  you  go  away?  If  you  had 
only  stayed  here,  something  might  have  been 
done,  although  I  confess  your  father's  obdu- 
racy staggers  me." 

"Is  he  still  angry  with  me?"  asked  Gerald, 
anxiously. 

"He  will  not  hear  your  name  mentioned," 
Maxwell  answered.  "It  was  the  business  of 
stealing  the  baby  that  finished  him.  He  has 
often  said  that  he  might  have  forgiven  every- 
thing else,  but  that  was  too  dastardly." 

"He  is  right,"  Gerald  replied  in  a  low  voice. 
"But  now,  Maxwell,  I  am  ready  and  willing 
to  give  back  the  boy  to  his  mother.  I  do  not 
want  this  suit  to  go  on.  I  cannot  have  the 
whole  wretched  story  dragged  through  the 
courts  again  and  rehashed  in  the  newspapers. 

238 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

If  dad  would  only  see  me "    He  paused. 

His  voice  shook  a  trifle. 

"Well,  I'll  do  my  best,"  Maxwell  said.  "But 
I  do  not  know  how  it  will  turn  out.  Your 
father  is  greatly  changed." 

"Where  is  he?"  Gerald  asked. 

"Up  at  Wilson's  camp  in  the  mountains," 
replied  Maxwell. 

Gerald  hesitated  a  moment.  "Is — she  with 
him?"  he  questioned  with  difficulty. 

"Yes,  and  so  is  Mr.  Tyson.  He  leans  on 
them  both  very  greatly.  He  is  tremendously 
fond  of — of  Mrs.  Sunderland."  Maxwell  tried 
to  speak  briskly.  "And  really,  Gerald,  my 
boy,  she  is  grown  a  great  beauty.  Constant 
association  with  a  man  like  your  father  has 
done  wonders  for  her.  She  is  as  handsome  as  a 
picture  and  as  stately  as  a  duchess,"  cried 
Maxwell,  waxing  eloquent.  "The  sort  that 
everybody  turns  and  looks  after.  I  admit  that 
I  was  very  much  prejudiced,  but  I  will  say  that 
I  have  rarely  seen  a  more  charming  young 
woman." 

239 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

Gerald  was  silent.  Many  varied  thoughts 
surged  through  his  mind.  He  recalled  the 
weeping,  frenzied  girl  who  had  heaped  re- 
proaches on  him  and  flung  herself  daily  on  her 
knees  to  him.  Maxwell's  glowing  description 
illy  accorded  with  this  remembrance.  "What 
do  you  advise,  Maxwell?"  he  at  length  asked 
dully. 

"I  think  a  very  good  plan  is  for  us  to  go  up 
there  and  await  developments,"  returned  the 
lawyer.  "It  is  well  to  be  on  hand  in  a  case 
like  this.  There  may  come  a  moment  when 
Sunderland  will  relax  his  severity.  Then — 
there  you  are,"  he  somewhat  lamely  concluded. 

In  accordance  with  this  plan,  Gerald  and 
Maxwell,  with  the  child,  journeyed  up  to  the 
Adirondacks.  They  took  rooms  at  a  hotel  a 
few  miles  from  Wilson's  camp  and  on  the  day 
after  their  arrival,  leaving  the  boy  in  the  charge 
of  responsible  persons  at  the  hotel,  the  two 
walked  through  the  woods. 

"Your  father  has  built  a  lodge  near  the 
camp,"  Maxwell  told  Gerald,  as  they  were 

240 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

walking  along,  "just  back  of  where  the  camp- 
fire  is  lighted.  He  brought  your  wife  here  the 
first  summer  after  you  went  away.  She  was 
ill  for  weeks  with  brain  fever,  and  when  she 
was  able  to  travel  he  fetched  her  to  her  father. 
But  it  was  pretty  rough  quarters  for  an  in- 
valid, so  he  had  an  architect  up  from  New 
York  to  plan  a  lodge.  They've  been  here  all 
summer.  They  see  no  one  but  Tyson,  who 
stays  near  here  at  another  camp." 

It  was  arranged  that  Gerald  should  remain 
a  mile  or  so  from  Wilson's  while  Maxwell  went 
ahead  to  reconnoiter.  This  plan  was  carried 
out,  and,  all  the  long,  still  afternoon,  Gerald 
sat  alone  in  the  vast  forest,  listening  for  the 
return  of  his  companion's  footsteps. 

At  last  Maxwell  came,  red,  angry  and  dis- 
couraged. "It's  no  use,"  he  said  despairingly. 
"He  will  not  listen  to  a  word  in  your  favor. 
I  did  not  tell  him  you  were  here,  for  I  saw 
he  was  in  no  mood  to  hear  that  news.  So  we 
might  as  well  go  back." 

"Maxwell,"  said  Gerald,  after  an  embar- 
241 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

rassed  pause,  "I  am  not  going  back  until  I  get 
a  glimpse  of  the  governor.  I — I — I  have  got 
to  see  him,"  he  added  desperately,  with  a  sud- 
den break  in  his  voice. 

"Well,  go  ahead ;  but  on  your  life  do  not  let 
him  see  you  to-day,"  was  the  reply. 

Gerald  took  the  trail,  which  wound  through 
a  deep,  dense  piece  of  woods.  It  was  past  sun- 
set when  he  came  to  the  border  of  trees  sur- 
rounding the  clearing.  He  paused,  and,  se- 
curely hidden  from  sight  in  a  thicket,  looked 
out  at  his  father's  lodge.  It  was  a  beautiful 
cottage  of  rustic  finish  and  rough  stone  founda- 
tion with  spacious  porches  and  balconies.  The 
piazzas  were  furnished  with  fur  rugs  and  lux- 
urious easy-chairs.  Through  the  doorway  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  hall  and  a  great  fire- 
place where  a  huge  log  was  burning.  Two  or 
three  fine  dogs  lay  upon  the  piazza,  and  in  one 
chair  was  a  bit  of  bright  embroidery.  The 
open  door,  the  firelight  streaming  out,  the 
general  look  of  home  about  the  place,  struck 
sharply  to  the  heart  of  the  man  standing  with- 

242 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

out,  alone  in  the  forest.  "Dad's  home,"  he 
muttered,  "and  I  am  shut  out." 

There  was  a  window  hung  with  fluffy  white 
draperies  at  the  right  of  the  hall  door,  and 
just  within  it,  on  a  table,  a  tall  lamp.  It  was 
almost  dark  now.  Bats  were  flying  about  and 
the  night  gloom  was  fast  descending.  Some 
one  suddenly  came  out  on  the  piazza.  Gerald's 
heart  leaped  to  his  throat  as  he  recognized  his 
father's  splendid  proportions.  His  face  seemed 
strangely  white  through  the  oncoming  night. 
While  Gerald  bent,  straining  his  sight  to  see 
more,  his  father  suddenly  spoke.  "Josephine," 
he  said,  and  a  little  white-capped  maid  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway — "Josephine,  you  have 
not  lighted  the  lamp."  His  voice  sounded 
peevish.  The  girl  at  once  disappeared. 

Gerald's  eyes  involuntarily  strayed  to  the 
lamp  in  the  window.  He  saw  the  maid  lift 
the  globe  and  set  it  down  on  the  table;  and 
then  his  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  For 
a  woman — a  tall,  stately  young  woman,  with 
the  bearing  of  a  princess,  was  holding  a  burn- 

243 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

ing  match  to  the  wick.  The  light  flared  up, 
the  maid  replaced  the  red  globe  and  went 
away. 

But  the  princess  with  the  pale,  proud  face 
remained,  standing  where  the  glow  of  the  lamp 
lit  up  her  beautiful  face,  looking  out  with  in- 
scrutable eyes  toward  the  forest,  as  if  they 
would  read  every  mystery — every  secret  hidden 
there. 


244 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"These  dim  vaults, 

These    winding    aisles    of    human    pomp    or  pride, 
Report  not." 

AT  the  further  end  of  the  lake  at  a  hotel 
frequented  by  fashionables  was  a  gay  party  of 
New  Yorkers  that  had  run  up  from  Saratoga 
for  a  few  days.  Among  them  were  Adelaide 
Flornoy  and  Bobby  Dwyer.  On  the  afternoon 
that  Gerald  had  walked  with  Maxwell  over 
to  Wilson's,  Mrs.  Flornoy  sat  upon  the  porch 
of  the  hotel  in  a  brown  study.  She  looked  out 
from  under  her  mauve  parasol  as  Bobby,  in 
immaculate  flannels,  approached  her,  and  said, 
as  if  speaking  to  a  groom:  "I  want  you  to 
have  your  motor  boat  ready  at  ten  o'clock  to- 
morrow morning." 

"Where  away  now?"  asked  Bobby,  pushing 
245 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

aside  the  frills  of  her  voluminous  organdie, 
that  he  might  sit  by  her. 

"We  are  going  over  to  George  Sunderland's 
lodge.  And  as  it  is  some  way  from  here,  we 
must  get  an  early  start,"  replied  the  lady. 

"Sunderland's  lodge?"  questioned  Bobby, 
with  a  slight  elevation  of  his  eyebrows. 

"Yes,  Bobby,"  Adelaide  returned  authorita- 
tively. "It's  high  time  some  one  made  an  as- 
sault on  the  citadel.  George  is  too  charming  a 
man  to  be  lost  to  society.  I  had  this  in  mind 
when  I  came  up  here.  We  have  simply  got  to 
get  him  back  where  he  rightly  belongs." 

"Ah,"  said  Bobby,  ruefully  reminiscent, 
"devilish  good  dinners  he  used  to  give." 

"It's  outrageous,"  went  on  Adelaide,  "that 
he  should  bury  himself  here  like  a  hermit  and 
refuse  to  see  his  old  friends.  Why  should  he 
not  come  over  to  the  hotel  now  and  then  for 
a  little  bridge?" 

"Yes,"  assented  Bobby;  "he  misses  a  deuce 
of  a  lot." 

"Well,  I  am  going  over  to  see  him,"  said 
246 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

Mrs.  Flornoy.  "I  am  confident  he  will  not 
deny  me.  I  am  not  so  sure  about  you,"  she 
added,  looking  at  Bobby  rather  discouragingly. 

"Oh,  old  George  will  see  me,"  cried  Bobby 
with  the  utmost  confidence.  "As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  would  probably  prefer  me  to  call. 
They  say  he  has  turned  woman  hater." 

"I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,"  retorted 
Adelaide.  "The  truth  is,  George  is  such  a  sen- 
sitive old  dear,  that  he  fancies  people  do  not 
wish  to  know  him  any  more.  Which  is  of 
course  utterly  absurd.  It  was  not  he  who  got 
entangled  with  a  nobody  and  brought  a  messy 
scandal  on  his  name.  It  was  that  blond  brute 
of  a  Jerry.  I  must  say,"  she  rattled  on,  "Jerry 
behaved  shockingly.  Especially  in  stealing  the 
child.  You  know,  Bobby,  a  child-stealer  is 
really  low." 

"Deuce  take  me,"  ruminated  Bobby,  "if  I 
can  see  what  upon  earth  Jerry  wanted  with  a 
baby." 

"Simply  to  further  enrage  his  long-suffer- 
ing father,"  began  Adelaide,  when,  to  her 

247 


amazement,  Bobby  suddenly  shouted  with 
laughter.  She  turned  and  regarded  him 
severely.  "Really,"  she  said  freezingly,  "I  see 
no  occasion  for  mirth.  You  grow  very  rude, 
Bobby." 

"O  Lord!"  cried  Bobby,  wiping  his  eyes.  "I 
am  not  laughing  at  you.  You  are  not  funny. 
I  was  just  fancying  Jerry — Jerry  nursing  a 
baby!  Ha,  ha,  hal"  and  again  he  went  into  a 
fit  of  laughter. 

"I  hear,"  continued  Adelaide,  when  Bobby's 
mirth  had  somewhat  abated,  "that  girl  has 
brought  an  action  to  secure  the  custody  of  the 
child." 

"Yes,"  replied  Bobby,  imitating  a  newsboy's 
cry.  "All  about  the  Sunderland  case  in  the 
New  York  Morning  Simoon!" 

"Vile,  yellow  sheet!"  cried  Adelaide,  virtu- 
ously. "I  never  read  it." 

Bobby  drew  a  copy  of  the  paper  from  his 
coat  pocket.  "In  that  event,"  he  said,  "I  shall 
be  obliged  to  read  it  to  you." 

Mrs.  Flornoy  instantly  snatched  the  journal 
248 


from  Bobby's  hand  and  ran  her  eyes  up  and 
down  its  columns,  until  at  last  with  a  long- 
drawn  "Ah-h-h!"  of  satisfaction  she  read 
eagerly. 

"The  case  comes  off  in  September,  I  see," 
she  remarked.  "Bobby,  we  will  go.  I  am  dy- 
ing to  see  her.  I  hear  she  is  grown  a  stunning 
beauty.  But  our  first  affair  is  to  go  after 
George.  Mark  my  prophecy,  Bobby,  we  will 
bring  George  back  to  dine  with  us  to-morrow." 

The  next  day  found  Mrs.  Flornoy  and 
Bobby  before  Sunderland's  lodge.  As  they 
alighted  from  their  motor  boat,  they  saw  a 
man  busily  engaged  in  laying  the  camp-fire 
before  the  great  piazza,  for  Sunderland  would 
have  the  primitive  custom  kept  up  every 
evening.  The  man  looked  up  as  they  drew 
near  and  touched  his  cap  deferentially.  He 
wore  a  rough,  corduroy  suit  and  high  boots. 
His  face  was  grizzled  and  sunburned  and  there 
was  a  tinge  of  melancholy  in  his  dark  eyes. 
When  he  spoke,  it  was  in  the  soft,  slow  utter- 
ance of  the  backwoodsman,  the  voice  of  one 

249 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

who  is  always  listening  to  the  mysterious 
sounds  of  the  forest  and  who  has  all  the  time 
there  is  in  the  world  at  his  command. 

"Good-afternoon,"  cried  Mrs.  Flornoy,  air- 
ily, thrusting  aside  the  yards  of  white  chiffon 
that  enveloped  her  face,  in  order  to  take  a 
more  comprehensive  view  of  the  surroundings. 
"Is  this  Mr.  Sunderland's  lodge?" 

"Yes,  mom,"  said  the  man  quietly;  "but  Mr. 
Sunderland  don't  see  no  one." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  cried  the  lady  a  trifle 
sharply.  "Just  tell  him  that  Mrs.  Flornoy  and 
Mr.  Dwyer  are  over  with  their  motor  boat  from 
the  hotel  and  want  to  say  how-de-do." 

"Excuse  me,  mom,"  replied  the  man.  "I 
can't  take  no  messages  to  Mr.  Sunderland.  He 
don't  see  nobody." 

"He  will  see  me,"  cried  Mrs.  Flornoy, 
tartly. 

"He  wouldn't  see  the  angel  Gabriel,  mom," 
said  the  backwoodsman  patiently.  "And  I  do 
reckin,"  he  added,  with  the  suspicion  of  a 
twinkle  in  his  sad  eyes,  "that  you  hain't  him." 

250 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

"You  are  impertinent,"  cried  Adelaide, 
flushing. 

"Mebbe  I  am — mebbe  I  am,"  responded  the 
man.  "But,"  he  added  in  an  argumentative 
manner,  "now  hain't  it  kinder  impertinent  fer 
you  to  insist  upon  goin'  where  ye  hain't 
wanted?" 

"Oh,  you  need  a  man  to  talk  to  you,"  the 
lady  cried  in  a  rage.  "Bobby!"  She  motioned 
Dwyer  forward. 

The  man  at  the  camp-fire  surveyed  Bobby, 
who  in  his  auto-boat  garments  was  a  fearful 
and  wonderful  being. 

"Oh,"  he  said  with  quiet  humor,  "is  that  what 
you  call  a  man?" 

"Fellow!"  cried  Bobby,  indignantly. 

"Yes,"  assented  the  man,  "that's  what  I  am 
— a  fellow.  I  hain't  no  gentleman  like  you, 
sir.  I've  lived  in  the  woods  all  my  life  and 
I'm  rough,  I  know — but  I  don't  never  push 
myself  whar  I  hain't  welcome.  Mr.  George 
Sunderland's  come  here  tired  out,  heartbroken. 
He's  a-restin'  in  the  wilderness,"  he  added  with 

251 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

a  quaint  solemnity,  "and  his  rest  hain't  a-goin' 
to  be  broken." 

"This  must  be  the  girl's  father,"  murmured 
Adelaide  to  her  companion.  The  man  caught 
the  whisper.  "Never  you  mind,  mom,  about 
my  girl,"  he  said  sadly.  "She's  tired  out  and 
heartbroken,  too.  And  she's  a-restin'  in  the 
wilderness.  And  thar  hain't  nobody  a-goin'  to 
disturb  her  rest,  neither."  His  lips  closed 
firmly. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  be  insulted,"  cried 
Adelaide,  angrily  glancing  toward  the  boat. 

"I  don't  want  to  insult  no  one,  mom,"  re- 
turned Wilson,  mildly.  "All  we  want  here  is 
to  be  let  alone." 

"Oh,  well,"  snapped  Mrs.  Flornoy,  walking 
toward  the  dock,  "what  can  we  expect  from 
one  not  of  our  world " 

"That's  it,  mom,"  eagerly  interrupted  Wil- 
son. "I  don't  belong  to  no  world  of  your'n. 
Your  world  with  its  money  and  finery,  its  noise 
and  confusion  lies  fur  away.  This  here" — with 
a  comprehensive  sweep  of  his  arm — "is  God's 

252 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

world.  Thar  hain't  no  noise  nor  uproar  here — 
jest  calm  and  rest.  You  know  the  Good  Book 
says,  'Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  are  weary  and 
heavy-laden  and  I  will  give  you  rest.'  Wall, 
I  kalkilate  that  if  folks  want  to  git  next  to 
God,  they  leaves  your  world  with  all  its 
trouble  and  sorrer  and  disappointments,  and 
comes  to  the  wilderness  to  rest." 

"A  preacher!"  sneered  Adelaide,  as  they 
started. 

"No,  mom,"  Wilson  replied  with  simplicity, 
as  he  raised  his  cap  in  parting  salutation,  "only 
a  woodsman.  Good-day,  mom," 

There  was  silence  in  the  boat  for  a  few  miles 
as  the  ruffled  pair  went  on  their  way.  At  last 
Bobby  looked  at  his  crestfallen  companion  with 
a  sly  smile. 

"Bobby,"  she  cried,  angrily  flushing  under 
her  white  veil,  "if  you  look  at  me  again  like 
that  I  will  slap  you." 

"I  thought  there  was  no  question  about  his 
seeing  you — eh,  what?"  asked  Bobby. 

"Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  you  impudent 
253 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

boy?"  snapped  the  lady,  who  was  in  a  fine  rage. 
"When  I  try  to  be  a  public  benefactor  again, 
you  will  know  it." 

"Adelaide,  no  family  should  be  without 
you,"  retorted  Bobby,  highly  pleased  with  his 
own  persiflage. 

A  stony  silence  fell  upon  the  two,  which 
Bobby  was  wise  enough  not  to  break.  When 
they  reached  the  hotel,  Adelaide  hastened  to 
her  rooms,  where  she  promptly  went  into  hys- 
terics, while  Bobby,  making  his  way  to  the 
bar,  sought  balm  for  his  injured  feelings  in  a 
high-ball. 


254 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"At   evening-time   it   shall   be   light." 

GERALD  turned  back  through  the  forest, 
dazed  and  mystified.  Was  it  possible  this  regal 
young  creature  was  his  wife  ?  He  recalled  the 
slim  slip  of  a  girl  he  had  known,  as  shy  as  the 
wild  things  of  the  wood.  Her  very  timidity 
had  attracted  him  at  the  first ;  then  her  strange, 
gypsy  beauty  had  woven  a  charm  for  his  fickle 
fancy.  He  had  imagined  himself  madly  in  love 
with  this  daughter  of  the  woods  and  had  pur- 
sued her  as  relentlessly  as  a  sportsman  his 
quarry.  A  promise  of  speedy  marriage  had 
been  the  bait  with  which  he  had  finally  lured 
her  away. 

In  New  York,  her  novel  beauty  had  quickly 
palled  upon  him;  her  timidity  became  gauch- 

255 


erie.  Her  tears  and  reproaches  had  irritated 
and  finally  disenchanted  him.  At  the  last,  he 
had  left  her  quite  alone  in  her  gilded  cage,  glad 
of  an  excuse  to  neglect  her. 

But  this  stately  creature  with  the  face  of  a 
sphinx,  who  had  turned  her  glorious  eyes  upon 
his  lurking  place  with  an  intensity  of  gaze  that 
seemed  to  pierce  all  concealing  barriers,  was 
quite  another  being.  Gerald  had  been  sepa- 
rated so  long  from  his  world  and  from  the 
society  of  decent  women,  that  the  vision  of  this 
beautiful  girl-woman,  dressed  in  soft,  white, 
filmy  draperies,  looking  out  from  the  window 
through  the  night,  wove  a  strange  spell  about 
him.  He  could  not  banish  it.  When  he 
reached  his  room  and  stood  looking  down  at 
his  sleeping  child,  he  saw  in  his  dark  beauty 
the  face  of  the  unhappy  mother.  In  the  morn- 
ing when  he  wakened,  his  little  son  was  sitting 
up  in  bed,  solemnly  regarding  him  with  great, 
inscrutable  eyes.  Again  Gerald  saw  the  face 
at  the  window,  and,  in  a  sudden  inexplicable 
passion,  he  caught  the  child  to  him  and  pressed 

256 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

kisses  on  his  eyes,  his  lips,  his  hair.  "My  boy," 
he  whispered,  "you  are  so  like  her." 

It  was  decided  that  Maxwell  and  Gerald 
should  walk  again  to  the  lodge  that  day.  Max- 
well would  once  more  urge  Sunderland  to  see 
his  son.  "I  will  not  wait  in  the  woods,"  Ger- 
ald said.  "It  is  a  torture  I  cannot  endure.  I 
shall  go  as  near  the  house  as  I  dare.  I  want 
you  to  get  dad  outside.  I  want  to  hear  him 
speak.  I  want  to  see  him  closer.  You  must 
invent  some  pretext,  Maxwell." 

To  this  the  lawyer  agreed  and  in  due  course 
of  time,  Gerald,  crouching  behind  a  huge  tree, 
saw  his  father  and  Maxwell  descend  the  steps 
of  the  lodge  and  walk  slowly  toward  him.  Ger- 
ald's heart  smote  him  as  he  saw  Sunderland's 
extreme  pallor,  the  deep  lines  cut  in  his  hand- 
some face  and  the  purple  hollows  under  his 
eyes.  "My  work!"  he  bitterly  thought.  He 
longed  to  break  from  his  hiding  place,  to 
throw  himself  upon  his  father's  heart  and  beg 
forgiveness.  Perhaps  if  he  had  yielded  to  this 
inclination  his  father  might  then  and  there  have 

257 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

received  him  with  love  and  compassion.  But 
he  hesitated,  and,  doing  so,  heard  Sunderland 
speak  with  frigid  dignity.  "It  is  quite  useless, 
Maxwell,"  he  said,  "to  continue  this  painful 
discussion.  I  can  never  forgive  him." 

"Now,  my  dear  Sunderland,"  began  Max- 
well, "upon  my  soul,  I  think  you  are  very  hard 
on  him.  He  has  never  importuned  you.  He 
is  taking  good  care  of  the  child " 

"The  least  said  about  the  child,  the  better," 
interrupted  Sunderland  in  an  iron  voice.  "The 
child  he  so  cruelly  stole  from  its  poor  young 
mother  and  cunningly  hid  away  for  these  three 
years." 

"Well,"  plausibly  argued  the  lawyer,  "he 
very  naturally  wanted  the  custody  of  his  child." 

Sunderland  turned  fiercely  upon  him. 
"Maxwell,"  he  stormed,  "you  enrage  me. 
What  upon  earth  did  Gerald  care  about  that 
baby?  He  took  it  away  to  inflict  suffering 
upon  its  mother  and  to  further  vex  me.  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I." 

"Possibly,  possibly,"  Maxwell  assented; 
258 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"but  now  that  we  have  found  him  and  you 
have  begun  the  action  for  the  recovery  of  the 
infant,  that  will  soon  be  settled  and  the  child 
restored  to  its  mother.  But  there  is  no  need 
of  legal  measures.  Think  how  much  better  for 
all  concerned  if  you  should  let  your  son  come 
home  and  forget  and  forgive.  Here  you  are 
all  alone " 

"I  am  not  alone,"  returned  Sunderland, 
firmly.  "I  have  my  son's  wife  and  her  good 
father  with  me.  And  Jack  comes  every  day. 
To  be  sure,"  he  added  gloomily,  "Gerald  has 
robbed  me  of  all  hope.  I  should  have  had  a 

wife — a  home "    He  paused.    One  of  his 

black  moods  came  upon  him.  "As  it  is,  I  am  a 
leaf  in  the  storm,  blown  here  and  there, 
whipped  by  the  wind,  frayed  and  torn,  seek- 
ing only  a  resting  place."  His  eyes  were  filled 
with  bitterness. 

"You  are  most  unreasonable,"  ejaculated  the 
lawyer.  "The  boy  has  been  punished  enough." 

"Let  me  be  the  judge  of  that,"  said  Sun- 
derland, coldly. 

259 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"Yes,"  said  Maxwell,  preparing  to  leave 
him,  "you  are  the  judge,  and  a  relentless,  in- 
exorable one " 

"Maxwell!"  Sunderland  cried  in  anger. 

"With  the  mercy  ye  mete  it  shall  be  meas- 
ured to  you  again,"  snapped  the  fussy  little 
lawyer,  going.  "You  had  best  think  about 
that  a  little,  George  Sunderland." 

"Maxwell,  you  go  too  far,"  thundered  the 
other.  "Do  not  come  here  again  unless  I  send 
for  you." 

"Oh,  I  will  not!"  retorted  the  lawyer,  quite 
out  of  all  conceit  with  him.  "Rest  assured  of 
that."  He  clapped  his  hat  on  his  bald  head 
and  strode  angrily  into  the  forest.  As  he 
passed  Gerald  the  latter  motioned  him  to  go 
on  and  wait  for  him. 

Sunderland  had  seated  himself  on  a  rustic 
bench  near  the  heaped-up  logs  ready  for  the 
nightly  camp-fire.  His  back  was  toward  Ger- 
ald. His  head  sank  down  upon  his  breast. 
His  whole  attitude  was  one  of  hopeless  grief. 
"Poor  dad!"  the  prodigal  behind  him  sighed 

260 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

in  sincere  contrition.    "How  old  he  looks! 
work — my  work!" 

Suddenly  through  the  hall  door  came  the 
princess  of  the  night  before.  She  wore  a  gown 
of  the  softest,  palest  blue,  which  she  carelessly 
trailed  across  the  piazza  and  down  the  steps. 
She  came  on  down  the  path  and  Gerald  marked 
the  ease  and  grace  of  her  movements.  As  she 
neared  him,  he  wondered  at  the  extreme  ivory 
of  her  skin,  the  beautiful  lights  in  her  heaped- 
up  copper-brown  hair,  but,  above  all,  at  her 
poise  and  self-possession.  No  daughter  of  a 
hundred  earls  could  have  carried  herself  with 
more  perfect  suppleness  and  dignity. 

"Are  you  coming  in,  father?"  she  asked,  and 
her  voice  was  exquisitely  modulated.  Gerald 
remembered  how  rough  and  uncultivated  he 
had  once  thought  her  speech,  and  marveled 
the  more. 

"Yes,  daughter";  and  Sunderland  lingered 
affectionately  on  the  word.  "Yes,  I  am  com- 
ing, Kitty,"  he  added.  "Maxwell  has  just  been 
here  and  tells  me  that  Gerald  is  in  New  York 

261 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

— with  the  child.  The  papers  have  been  served 
on  him  and  the  case  will  come  up  in  September. 
There  is  no  doubt  the  courts  will  restore  the 
boy  to  you." 

The  girl  swayed  a  little,  then  put  up  both 
hands  over  her  face.  "Oh,  my  baby!"  she 
sobbed.  "My  little  baby!" 

Sunderland,  rising,  went  to  her  and  sup- 
ported her  tenderly.  "There,  my  dear,  do  not 
give  way,"  he  said  gently.  "You  will  soon 
have  your  baby  again." 

"No,"  moaned  Kitty,  "not  my  baby.  He  is 
a  big  boy  by  this  time.  I  want  my  little  baby." 
The  tears  streamed  down  her  pale  cheeks. 

"Yes,  poor  little  mother,"  said  Sunderland, 
soothingly,  "I  know — I  know.  You  have  hun- 
gered for  him,  have  you  not?" 

"Oh,  father,"  cried  the  girl  wildly,  "there 
has  never  been  an  hour  in  all  these  years  that 
my  heart  has  not  cried  out  for  him.  I  have 
wakened  nights  from  dreams  of  his  dear  little 
hands  and  velvety  lips.  I  have  stretched  out 

262 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

my  empty  arms  to  the  darkness.    But — there 
was  nothing  there." 

Sunderland  seemed  tortured  by  her  sorrow. 
"Infamous!"  he  muttered.  "Kitty,  if  I  could 
bring  myself  to  forgive  Gerald  for  his  disloyal- 
ty and  disobedience  to  me,  I  could  never  for- 
give him  for  the  outrages  he  has  heaped  on 
you." 

The  girl  suddenly  dried  her  tears.  She  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  then,  laying  her  hand  upon 
Sunderland's  shoulder,  spoke  with  simple 
pathos.  "I  wish  you  would  forgive  him, 
father,"  she  said. 

"You  ask  me  to  forgive?"  cried  Sunderland 
in  surprise.  "You,  Kitty?  Could  you  forgive 
him?" 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  murmured,  "if  he  asked  me." 

"You  could  forgive,"  Sunderland  went  on 
in  measured  tones,  "a  man  who  has  so  grossly 
insulted  you?  Who  outraged  the  most  sacred 
emotions  of  womanhood?" 

"Ah,  father,"  she  replied  with  simplicity, 
"but  you  see — I  loved  Jerry.  I  love  him  £ 

263 


Sunderland  made  no  answer,  but  with  state- 
ly old-time  courtesy  bent  and  kissed  her  hand. 
Then  he  offered  her  his  arm  and  the  two  went 
slowly  toward  the  lodge. 

Night  fell  on  a  man  who  stumbled  through 
the  forest,  his  cheeks  wet  with  tears,  but  with 
a  strange  glow  at  his  heart,  a  strange  light  in 
his  eyes — an  ineffable  light  that  shines  through 
darkness  unto  the  perfect  day. 


264 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"Love  comes  back  to  its  old  sweet  dwelling." 

MRS.  FLORNOY'S  party  returned  to  Saratoga 
for  the  races,  and  on  the  day  they  left,  Mrs. 
Adriance  and  Lily  arrived  at  Raquette  Lake. 
They  had  spent  a  few  days  in  New  York  and 
had  there  heard  of  Sunderland's  retreat  in  the 
mountains  and  of  Gerald's  return.  Of  Tyson 
they  could  discover  no  trace.  None  of  their 
mutual  acquaintances  knew  of  his  whereabouts. 
Some  said  he  was  at  Newport,  others  were  of 
the  opinion  that  he  had  gone  abroad. 

"Lily,"  said  Mrs.  Adriance  one  day,  "New 
York  is  a  forlorn  abomination  with  its  end- 
less rows  of  burning  streets  and  its  ugly, 
boarded-up  houses.  Why  should  we  not  have 
a" — she  stumbled  a  little  but  blushingly  re- 

265 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

covered  herself — "a  fortnight  at  Raquette 
Lake?  We  can  row  to  Wilson's  and  see 
George,"  she  added,  blushing.  "Now  that 
there  is  no  danger  of  encountering  Gerald,  I 
see  no  objection  to  your  visiting  your  guar- 
dian. If  we  stop  here  we  may  run  into  him 
any  day."  For  what  Mrs.  Adriance  had  not 
learned  was  that  Gerald  was  also  in  the  woods, 
going  on  his  fruitless  quest  day  after  day,  wait- 
ing, hoping  that  an  hour  might  come  when  his 
father  would  no  longer  oppose  a  reconciliation. 
Night  after  night,  from  the  forest,  he  watched 
the  lighting  of  the  red  lamp  in  the  window. 
He  wondered  why  his  father  was  so  careful  it 
should  be  done.  He  paid  no  attention  to  the 
other  lighting  of  the  lodge,  but  repeatedly  gave 
orders  about  this  lamp.  The  window  was  so 
situated  that  the  lurid  light  shone  far  down  the 
trail  through  the  woods.  For  whose  wander- 
ing steps  did  his  father  desire  that  guide?  Ger- 
ald had  discovered  that  Sunderland  wished  no 
visitors.  To  be  sure,  Tyson  drove  over  every 
day  from  his  place,  but  never  came  at  night. 

2G6 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

It  was  a  riddle  to  Gerald,  until  one  evening 
when  his  father  feverishly  summoned  Josephine 
and  sharply  asked  why  she  had  not  lighted  the 
lamp.  The  girl  made  her  excuses  and  hastily 
ran  to  her  task.  Sunderland  turned  and  looked 
far  down  the  dim  woodland  trail  and  then 
spoke  aloud.  "He  might  come,"  he  said,  hesi- 
tatingly, "and  there — would  be — no  light  for 
him." 

"It  is  for  me,"  the  prodigal  whispered;  "the 
light  is  for  me!  Oh,  my  father,  you  do  love 
me  still!"  His  heart  leaped  within  him.  Hot 
tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  Another  moment  and 
he  would  have  been  at  Sunderland's  feet,  but 
his  father  rose  abruptly  and  went  into  the 
lodge.  For  a  time  Gerald  lingered,  trying  to 
summon  up  sufficient  courage  to  follow  him. 
But  he  felt  he  had  allowed  the  psychological 
moment  to  pass  and  wearily  trudged  back  over 
the  trail  saying:  "To-morrow — to-morrow  I 
will  chance  it." 

Maxwell,  meantime,  in  despair  of  bring- 
ing about  the  consummation  he  so  devoutly 

267 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

wished,  had  crossed  the  lake  to  see  a  legal  ac- 
quaintance who  was  stopping  at  the  more  fash- 
ionable resort.  As  he  strolled  along  the  hotel 
piazza  he  came  suddenly  upon  Mrs.  Adriance 
and  her  daughter.  The  two  courteously  recog- 
nizing him,  he  quickly  excused  himself  to  his 
friend  and  was  soon  bowing  over  Mrs.  Adri- 
ance's  hand.  A  brief  conversation  brought 
them  to  the  subject  closest  to  their  hearts.  "I 
doubt  if  he  sees  you,"  Maxwell  said  as  Mrs. 
Adriance  unfolded  her  plan  to  row  next  day 
to  the  lodge.  "He  refused  Mrs.  Flornoy  and 
Mr.  Dwyer  in  the  most  peremptory  fashion, 
and  he  sent  me  flying  two  or  three  days  since — 
me — his  oldest  friend — who  served  his  father," 
the  lawyer's  voice  trembled,  "just  because  I 
dared  say  a  word  for  his  unfortunate  son." 
The  fussy  old  man  seemed  on  the  point  of  a 
breakdown. 

Lily  regarded  him  kindly  while  Mrs.  Adri- 
ance gently  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "Do 
not  give  way,  Mr.  Maxwell,"  she  said.  "I 
know  you  must  feel  it  keenly." 

268 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

"He  has  changed  so,"  choked  Maxwell. 
"Used  to  be  the  loveliest,  most  amiable  of  men. 
Now  he's  a  bear — a  curmudgeon — yes,  that's 
it.  To  think  of  George  Sunderland  becoming 
a  curmudgeon!"  He  raised  his  thin,  yellow 
hands  in  helpless  despair. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Adriance,  "it  is  very  pain- 
ful— very  sad.  But  I  am  going  to  beard  the 
lion  in  his  den.  I  think  he  will  see  me." 

"What  time  will  you  go  over?"  Maxwell 
asked. 

"Late  in  the  afternoon,"  replied  Mrs.  Adri- 
ance. "Perhaps  he  will  ask  me  to  dine — who 
knows?"  She  laughed  gaily. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  returned  Maxwell  with  grim 
humor,  "I  will  go  over,  too,  and  wait  in  the 
woods;  and  if  he  throws  you  out,  I  will  pick 
you  up." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  gravity  of  both 
ladies.  They  laughed  long  and  merrily  at 
Maxwell's  provision  for  Mrs.  Adriance's  relief. 

"Mother,"  asked  Lily,  after  Maxwell  had 
200 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

left  them,  "what  shall  you  do  when  we  get 
there?" 

"I  shall  walk  in  without  even  knocking," 
Mrs.  Adriance  said  with  decision.  "Then  he 
cannot  refuse  to  see  me.  I  think,  Lily,"  she 
added  with  sudden  shyness,  "that  you  had  best 
wait  outside.  I  can  talk  to  him  better  alone, 
you  know,"  she  added  argument atively. 

Lily  smiled  and  looked  down.  She  saw  per- 
fectly through  her  mother's  little  artifice  and 
loved  her  all  the  more  for  it.  "I  do  hope,  mam- 
ma," she  said  demurely,  "that  guardie  will  not 
throw  you  out." 

"Oh,  I  am  not  at  all  alarmed,  my  dear,"  her 
mother  replied  with  confidence.  Lily  had  not 
seen  Mrs.  Adriance  so  happy  and  contented 
in  months.  She  fluttered  about  all  the  evening, 
trying  on  various  hats  and  deciding  what  frock 
she  had  best  wear  the  next  day.  "One  always 
likes  to  look  one's  best,"  she  informed  her 
daughter.  And  to  this  truism  her  daughter 
agreed. 

Certainly,  a  more  delightful  little  lady  was 
270 


never  seen  than  Mrs.  Adriance  next  day,  in 
smart  Paris  tailored  frock  of  pearl-gray  with 
a  marvelous  gray  hat  adorned  with  orchids. 
Her  cheeks  were  as  pink  as  a  girl's,  her  eyes 
as  lustrous  as  sapphires,  and  her  beautiful 
snowy  hair  framed  a  charmingly  excited  face. 
"Mamma,  you  are  a  rose,"  cried  Lily,  "a  love- 
ly, full-blown  rose."  She  bent  and  kissed  her 
mother,  who  blushed  beneath  her  compliments. 
Lily's  gown  was  white,  as  usual.  She  seldom 
wore  colors,  and  her  Parisian  toque  of  white 
cloth  jauntily  crowned  her  beautiful  golden 
hair.  She  looked  like  an  angel  to  the  man 
who  lurked  in  the  forest,  as  she  slowly  saun- 
tered down  the  trail  after  seeing  her  mother 
walk  boldly  up  the  steps  and  into  the  open  door 
of  Sunderland's  lodge.  "I  will  walk  about  a 
little  while  I  am  waiting,"  she  said  to  her  guide. 
Leaving  the  boat,  she  turned  toward  the 
woods,  and,  walking  lazily  along,  was  sudden- 
ly conscious  of  a  presence  near  her.  A  man 
stood  in  a  covert,  not  far  from  her,  peering 
through  at  the  lodge.  At  the  sound  of  her 

271 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

footsteps,  he  turned  quickly  and  looked  at  her 
with  cavernous,  startled  eyes.  "Lily!"  he  cried. 

He  came  hastily  toward  her.  She  turned 
quite  faint  as  she  recognized  him.  But,  as  he 
came  nearer,  terror  forsook  her  and  a  great 
pity  took  its  place.  This  man  was  not  the 
Gerald  she  remembered.  He  was  thin  and 
heavy-eyed,  and  worried  lines  in  his  haggard 
face  told  a  story  of  sorrow.  She  held  out  her 
hand.  "Jerry!"  she  said  simply,  "is  it  you? 
Ah,  why  are  you  here?" 

He  took  her  hand  and  regarded  her  intently 
for  a  moment.  She  was  a  very  beautiful  girl, 
he  thought,  but  she  could  not  compare  with  the 
stately  young  princess  of  the  lodge.  He  now 
felt  no  regret  at  losing  her.  But  the  other — 
his  wife?  "I  would  barter  my  soul,"  he 
thought,  "if  I  could  get  back  what  I  once 
threw  away." 

"Lily,"  he  suddenly  said,  "I  have  been  here 
night  after  night,  haunting  the  place,  heart- 
sick fo*  a  word  with  the  governor.  All!  I've 
tried  so  many  times  to  get  courage  enough  to 

272 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

go  up  and  knock  at  the  door,  but  someway  I 
can't."  He  stopped  and  pressed  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

"Poor  Jerry!"  said  Lily,  laying  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"God  bless  you,  Lily!"  he  said,  lifting  his 
heavy  eyes.  "I  do  not  deserve  a  kind  word 
from  any  one,  least  from  you." 

"And  yet  I  find  only  kindness  in  my  heart 
for  you,  Jerry,"  she  answered.  "I  can  see  that 
you  have  suffered." 

"Ah,"  sighed  the  man,  "I  have  paid  heavily 
for  my  follies  and  sins.  But  the  boy  has  saved 
me.  The  little  chap  crept  into  my  hard  heart 
and  softened  it.  I  have  grown  to  idolize  him," 
he  added  softly. 

"Where  is  the  child?"  Lily  asked. 

"Back  there  with  Maxwell."  Gerald  indi- 
cated the  direction. 

"There?"  the  girl  repeated  in  astonishment. 

"Yes.  I  brought  him  over  to-night  with 
me.  I  had  an  insane  idea  of  taking  him  in  and 

begging  dad  for  the  sake  of  the  child "  He 

273 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

paused,  his  features  working  convulsively.  "O 
God!  O  God!"  he  cried  in  agony. 

The  girl  took  his  hand.  "Oh,  Jerry,  dear, 
do  not,"  she  expostulated.  "Listen  a  moment. 
Go  back  and  get  the  boy  and  bring  him  here. 
Mamma  and  I  will  do  our  best  for  you." 

"Lily,"  he  said,  "you  are  an  angel  straight 
from  heaven.  Do  you  know  I  have  done  an 
awful  lot  of  thinking  in  the  last  few  weeks? 
Lily,  dad  was  right.  It  is  not  the  way  the 
world  looks  at  it — ah,  no !  The  world  says  one 
law  for  the  man  and  another  for  the  woman. 
But  if  there  were  more  men  like  the  governor — 
to  take  just  the  stand  he  did — there  would  be  a 
heap  less  misery  in  the  world." 

"Yes,  Jerry,"  replied  the  girl,  "your  father 
was  right." 

"There  is  another  thing  I  must  say  to  you, 
Lily,"  Gerald  went  on.  "It's  about  Jack. 
Jack  was  the  straightest,  cleanest-minded  man 
I  ever  knew — decent,  square,  splendid  fellow. 
I  was  mad  at  losing  you  and  so  I  lied  to  you 

274 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

about  him.  Will  you  forgive  me?"  he  humbly 
asked. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  quietly  bowed  her 
head.  She  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

"I  must  go,"  said  Gerald,  suddenly.  "Some 
one  is  coming."  He  hurried  away  down  the 
trail  and  was  soon  lost  in  the  woods. 

Some  one  was  coming  from  the  lodge,  with 
long,  swinging  strides  crashing  through  the 
boughs  and  logs  laid  for  the  camp-fire,  never 
pausing,  rushing  on,  on  to  the  forest. 

At  the  sound  of  the  footsteps  the  girl  turned 
pale  and  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart  to  still  its 
happy  tumult.  The  descending  sun  sent  its 
last  rays  through  the  gloom  of  the  forest  to 
play  about  her  form,  and  it  was  against  the 
background  of  that  one  last  blaze  of  golden 
glory,  standing  all  in  white,  like  the  Blessed 
Damozel,  that  he  saw  her  again. 


275 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

"The  setting  sun  and  music  at  the  close." 

TYSON  and  Sunderland  were  dining  alone. 
Mrs.  Sunderland  was  not  feeling  well  and 
begged  to  be  excused,  was  the  message  Jose- 
phine brought  as  they  were  about  to  go  to 
dinner.  The  two  men  had  finished  their  soup 
and  were  awaiting  the  coming  of  a  noble 
haunch  of  venison,  the  roasting  of  which  was 
superintended  by  Wilson  himself,  who  would 
not  consent  to  take  a  back  seat  for  Sunder- 
land's  chef. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  soft  rustle  of  silks  in 
the  hall.  Sunderland  glanced  toward  the  door. 
"Ah!"  he  said,  "Kitty  must  be  feeling  better. 
She  is  coming  to  join  us,  after  all."  He  paused, 
his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  figure  that  stood  in 
the  doorway,  smiling  graciously  at  him.  Was 

276 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

it  a  dream?  he  asked  himself.  Instead  of  his 
stately  daughter-in-law,  there  stood  a  diminu- 
tive, pink-and-white  lady  in  a  marvelous  gray 
gown  and  a  wonderful  hat,  extending  tiny 
hands  and  murmuring:  "George,  are  you  not 
glad  to  see  me?" 

"Dorothy!"  Sunderland  ejaculated  as  he 
rose  and  went  to  her,  eagerly  taking  her  hands. 
Only  Tyson's  presence  prevented  a  scene.  "Is 
it  you?  Where  have  you  come  from?  When — 
how " 

"One  question  at  a  time,  my  dear  friend," 
cried  Mrs.  Adriance,  dimpling  and  blushing. 
"Jack,  how  do  you  do?  Awfully  glad  to  see 
you  again.  Lily  and  I  are  just  from  New 
York.  Before  that,  from  Switzerland " 

"Where  is  Miss  Adriance?"  suddenly  de- 
manded an  eager  voice.  Tyson  had  thrown  all 
diplomacy  to  the  winds.  His  one  thought  was 
to  find  Lily. 

Mrs.  Adriance  laughed  knowingly.  "She 
is  waiting  outside,"  she  said,  "to  see  George 
throw  me  out."  Tyson  heard  no  more,  but, 

277 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

with  a  hasty  apology,  darted  out.  He  ran 
down  the  steps,  expecting  to  see  Lily  in  the 
boat.  The  guide  saw  him  coming  with  great 
strides  and  at  once  realized  the  situation.  With 
a  significant  smile  the  man  merely  pointed  in 
the  direction  Lily  had  taken. 

As  he  came  up  with  her,  his  eyes,  filled  with 
glad  light,  searched  hers  steadily.  I  think  it 
was  all  settled  in  that  one  glance  before  either 
spoke.  In  another  moment  they  stood  with 
clasped  hands,  the  dark  head  bent  toward  the 
fair  one.  "Is  it  really  you?"  he  murmured, 
"or  are  you  the  phantom  of  my  dreams?" 

"No,  Jack,"  she  whispered;  "I  am  flesh  and 
blood."  Her  winsome  face,  upturned  to  his, 
tempted  him  sorely,  but  he  sternly  held  himself 
in  leash. 

"Lily,"  he  said  in  a  voice  vibrant  with  emo- 
tion, "wiiere  have  you  been  these  three  inter- 
minable years?" 

"Mother  and  I  have  been  living  quietly  in 
Switzerland,"  she  replied,  looking  at  him  from 
under  her  curling  lashes.  He  was  handsomer 

278 


THE  STUFF   OF   DREAMS 

than  ever  she  thought,  but  with  an  older, 
graver  look.  The  air  of  command  she  remem- 
bered had  grown  with  him  too.  He  was  re- 
garding her  with  a  sad  sternness  now  which 
secretly  delighted  her,  for,  like  all  women,  she 
loved  to  be  dominated  by  the  man  she  adored. 

"Why  did  you  hide  yourself  from  me?"  he 
asked,  his  burning  hands  holding  hers  closer. 

"I  felt,"  she  returned,  "that  I  must  be  alone 
and  work  out  all  the  problems  that  so  sadly 
vexed  me." 

"And  have  you  found  your  solutions?"  Ty- 
son questioned. 

"Not  all,"  she  replied;  "but  I  have  found  the 
key  to  the  one  that  most  distressed  me,  Jack." 
She  added  irrelevantly:  "Jerry's  here." 

"Here?"  questioned  Tyson,  amazed.  "I  had 
heard  he  was  in  New  York.  I  did  not  know  he 
had  come  here.  Where  is  he?" 

"He  was  here  a  moment  ago,"  Lily  an- 
swered. "He  has  gone  back  a  mile  or  so  after 
the  little  boy.  I  am  going  to  try  to  move 
guardie  to  see  him.  I  have  it  all  planned," 

279 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

she  added  with  enthusiasm,  "and  I  am  positive 
I  shall  succeed." 

"I  sincerely  hope  you  may,"  responded  Ty- 
son. "Believe  me,  Maxwell  and  I  have  done 
everything  we  could  for  Jerry.  But  Sunder- 
land  appears  implacable.  And  yet,  do  you 
know,  that  down  in  his  heart,  he  wants  his  son. 
If  he  would  but  once  see  Jerry.  But  that  is 
the  very  thing  he  fights  against." 

"I  shall  try,"  Lily  reiterated  with  a  wise 
shake  of  her  pretty  head. 

"You  are  the  only  one  who  can  do  anything 
now,"  Jack  replied.  He  had  released  her  hands 
and  the  two  were  slowly  strolling  down  the 
trail  toward  the  sunset.  The  birds  were 
making  their  good-nights  to  one  another.  Far 
in  the  forest  rose  one  plaintive,  liquid  note,  re- 
peated again  and  again  with  heartbreaking  in- 
sistence, like  that  wild,  dominating,  soul-wring- 
ing cry  in  the  Cavalliera  intermezzo. 

They  paused  to  listen.  Save  for  the  music 
of  the  birds,  they  stood  in  silence;  a  silence 
vast,  strange  and  primeval.  And  yet  it  pul- 

280 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

sated  with  happiness.  All  the  prejudices,  the 
doubts,  the  standards  of  the  world  were  gone. 
Alone,  in  the  glory  of  the  sunset  fading  to 
sweet  music,  they  stood,  realizing  that  the  su- 
preme moment  of  life  had  come,  dallying  with 
it,  desiring  to  make  it  endure  as  long  as  pos- 
sible, that  they  might  enjoy  each  exquisite 
moment  to  the  full. 

Lower  and  lower  sank  the  sun,  fainter  and 
finer  and  further  away  sounded  that  plaintive 
call  in  the  forest.  At  last  Tyson  spoke. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  will  hope  now  that  you 
are  come.  When  you  disappeared,  all  hope 
departed  from  my  life.  But  now  at  sight  of 
you,  at  touch  of  you,  it  returns.  I  have  loved 
you  so  long."  He  drew  her  gently  toward 
him. 

"Jack,"  she  murmured,  "do  you  recall  that 
frightful  day  when  Jerry  accused  you?  It 
shook  me.  I  wondered  if  all  men  were  alike. 
I  grew  sick  at  heart.  I  went  away  to  Nature. 
And  the  mountains  laid  their  cool  hands  upon 
me  and  healed  me.  They  showed  me  that  there 

281 


is  nothing  but  love,  love,  love — and  that  one 
should  ask  no  questions  of  love  when  it  comes, 
but  take  it  eagerly  and  thankfully.  Ah,  Jack, 
I  love  you." 

She  was  on  his  breast  now,  wrapped  and 
enfolded  in  her  lover's  arms.  The  sun  was 
gone  and  from  far  in  the  forest  came  the  last 
swan-note  of  the  bird's  love  call  to  its  mate. 


282 


'She  was  on  his  breast  now,  wrapped  and  enfolded  in 
her  lover's  arms." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"But  when  he  was  yet  a  great  way  off,  his  father 
saw  him." 

WITHIN  the  lodge,  Sunderland  and  Dorothy 
sat  alone  at  dinner.  When  some  time  elapsed 
and  Tyson  did  not  return,  the  two  smiled  at 
each  other  across  the  board  and  Mrs.  Adriance 
said:  "He  has  found  her." 

"I  hope  everything  is  understood,"  replied 
Sunderland.  "Jack  is  a  magnificent  fellow. 
What  he  has  been  to  me  in  my  loneliness,  God 
only  knows.  I  have  leaned  upon  him  as  on  a 
son."  «  " 

"And  Jerry?"  Mrs.  Adriance  asked,  shak- 
ing in  her  tiny  shoes  at  her  temerity. 

"I  cannot  hear  that  name,"  Sunderland  re- 
plied with  darkening  face.  Then  his  old,  rare 
smile  lightened  the  gloom,  as  a  rift  of  sunshine 

283 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

breaks  through  clouds.  He  looked  tenderly 
at  the  lovely,  gracious  face  across  the  table. 
"Ah,  Dorothy,"  he  murmured,  "is  it  true?  Or 
is  it  a  dream?  I  have  dreamed  so  often  that 
you  came,  only  to  wake  to  the  wretched  re- 
ality." 

The  lady  sat  looking  down,  playing  absent- 
ly with  her  fork.  Suddenly  she  resolutely 
lifted  her  face.  "George,"  she  said  with  shin- 
ing eyes,  "you  and  I  have  wasted  too  many 
years  of  our  lives  in  dreams." 

Sunderland  leaned  across  and  took  her  hand. 
Joy  sprang  to  his  mournful  eyes,  his  whole  face 
changed,  growing  younger  and  softer.  "Do 
you  mean "  he  began. 

"Yes,"  half  laughed,  half  sobbed  his  old 
sweetheart,  "if  you  will  have  it  so.  I  mean 
never  to  leave  you  again — my  poor,  dear,  lone- 
ly old  George."  She  was  softly  weeping  in  his 
arms  now.  He  drew  her  to  his  tired  heart  and 
kissed  her  solemnly.  "After  so  many  years," 
he  murmured.  "After  so  many  years." 

When  they  had  somewhat  recovered  their 
284 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

composure,  Sunderland  poured  a  glass  of 
Chateau  Yquem,  and  gallantly  bowing  to  Mrs. 
Adriance,  said:  "I  drink  to  an  old  sweetheart 
of  mine!" 

It  was  a  pretty  picture — the  handsome, 
stately  gentleman  with  frosted  head,  toasting 
with  old-time  gallantry  the  gracious,  white- 
haired  lady.  Youth  in  love  is  a  charming 
sight,  and  all  the  world  loves  a  lover.  But 
there  is  no  age  to  love.  That  spring  bubbles 
eternal  in  the  human  heart.  Its  waters  are  fed 
by  the  hand  of  God  Himself  and  bless  alike 
the  young  and  old. 

Long  these  white-haired  lovers  sat  in  the 
twilight.  A  strange  peace  had  descended  upon 
Sunderland's  heart.  He  seemed  to  be  a  man 
recovering  from  a  long  illness,  knowing  him- 
self still  weak  but  almost  free  from  pain.  But 
there  was  still  a  poignant  memory  that  burned 
and  rankled — still  one  grievous  thorn  that 
stung  him.  If  he  could  but  pluck  that  out, 
tear  it  up  by  the  roots,  then  heaven  itself 
would  come  down  to  earth. 

285 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

Kitty,  descending  to  light  the  lamp  in  the 
window,  found  the  two  sitting  alone  upon  the 
piazza.  Mrs.  Adriance  could  not  repress  her 
delight  at  the  girl's  great  beauty  and  manner. 

"George,"  she  said  as  Kitty  went  into  the 
lodge,  "she  is  superb.  Such  a  face — such  a 
voice — such  a  bearing!  What  does  it  mean?" 

"I  found  Kitty  very  adaptable,"  Sunder- 
land  replied,  "and  anxious  to  improve  herself 
in  every  way.  We  have  read  together  and  I 
have  taught  her  a  little,  I  hope." 

"A  little!"  echoed  Mrs.  Adriance.  "She  is 
wonderful." 

"The  average  American  girl  is  wonderful," 
returned  Sunderland.  "She  has  the  wit  and 
tact  to  adapt  herself  to  any  station  in  life. 
Kitty  has  been  a  devoted  daughter  to  me.  I 
have  never  for  one  moment  regretted  my 
course  toward  her.  But  here  come  Lily  and 
Tyson." 

Running  up  the  steps,  Lily  embraced  her 
guardian  warmly.  He  held  her  then  at  arm's 
length  and  scrutinized  her  closely.  "Lily,"  he 

286 


THE  STUFF   OF   DREAMS 

said,  "you  are  more  lovely  than  ever.  Ah, 
child,  you  bring  balm  and  healing  with  you. 
The  night  was  long  but  now  the  dawn  is  break- 
ing." 

"Yes,  guardie,  dear,"  she  smiled.  "But  give 
me  your  arm.  I  want  you  to  come  with  me 
and  look  at  the  sunrise." 

Sunderland  supported  her  wonderingly,  and 
the  two  went  down  the  walk  together.  Job 
Wilson  was  just  lighting  the  camp-fire.  They 
paused  for  a  moment  to  watch  the  fire  run 
from  log  to  log  and  finally  leap  and  dart  up 
toward  the  overhanging  boughs.  Lily  looked 
back  at  the  red  lamp  in  the  window  and  at 
the  other  firelight  dancing  through  the  great 
hall  door.  "How  cheerful  the  place  looks,"  she 
cried  with  enthusiasm;  "how  like  a  home! 
That's  it.  It's  home.  Have  you  ever  thought, 
guardie,  what  such  a  sight  as  this  must  mean 
to  one  who  has  no  home — who  has  wandered 
up  and  down  the  earth,  finding  no  rest  for  the 
sole  of  his  foot?" 

"Lily,  whom  do  you  mean?"  Her  guardian 
287 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

spoke  hoarsely,  giving  her  a  quick,  suspicious 
glance. 

"Whom  should  I  mean  but  myself?"  she 
lightly  replied.  "Have  I  not  been  a  wanderer 
for  three  years,  and  am  I  not  at  home  now?" 
She  pressed  his  arm  affectionately.  "Oh, 
guardie,  dear,  I  am  so  happy,  you  are  so  hap- 
py, we  are  so  happy.  Sounds  like  a  grammar 
class,  does  it  not?  To  think  you  are  really 
going  to  be  my  father  at  last!  Well,  better 
late  than  never.  Oh,  you  need  not  look  at  me 
like  that.  I  know  all  about  it.  Do  you  think 
I  cannot  see  an  inch  from  my  nose?"  She 
laughed  from  sheer  joy.  "And  you  are  not 
going  to  be  a  stern  parent  to  me,  are  you, 
dear?" 

"Never  to  you,  my  little  girl,"  Sunderland 
replied,  smiling  down  at  her  indulgently. 

They  had  almost  reached  the  forest  now. 
Lily  stopped  suddenly,  and,  dropping  her  tone 
of  levity,  spoke  earnestly.  "You  will  not  re- 
fuse me  the  one  thing  lacking  to  make  my 

288 


THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

happiness  complete,  will  you,  guardie?"  she 
said. 

"Lily,"  returned  her  guardian,  "ask  me  any- 
thing— save  to  see  Gerald.  That  I  cannot 
grant." 

"No,  dear,"  replied  the  girl  quickly,  "I  won't 
ask  you  to  see  him.  I  only  ask  you — to  see — 
a  messenger  from  Jerry." 

"That  is  substantially  the  same  thing,"  re- 
plied Sunderland. 

"Oh,  no,  guardie,  dear,"  Lily  innocently 
cried.  "Why,  you  know  you  can  send  the 
messenger  away  if  you  wish." 

Sunderland  hesitated.  Ah,  the  thorn  in  his 
side — if  he  could  but  pluck  it  forth — and  have 
done  with  the  cruel,  grinding  pain!  "Very 
well,"  he  said  with  an  effort;  "if  it's  not  Max- 
well— I  will  see  him." 

Lily  smiled.  "The  dear,  obstinate  old  hot- 
head," she  murmured  to  herself.  Then  aloud: 
"No,  dear,  it  is  not  Mr.  Maxwell." 

Sunderland  bowed  his  head  in  assent  and 
sat  down  on  the  bench  with  a  resigned  air. 

289 


"Send  him  here,"  he  said;  "I  will  listen  to  the 
message.    But  I  promise  nothing." 

Lily  darted  down  the  trail.  "Quick,  quick!" 
she  cried,  meeting  Gerald  and  Maxwell;  "give 
me  the  child."  She  caught  the  wondering  boy 
up  in  her  arms  and  fairly  flew  back  to  the 
place  where  Sunderland  sat  waiting.  "I  must 
not  give  him  time  to  change  his  mind,"  she 
thought. 

She  set  the  child  down  and  whispered:  "Go, 
darling,  and  stand  before  that  man  there.  Do 
not  be  afraid  of  him.  He  is  good  and  loves 
you.  He  will  ask  you  your  name  and  you 
must  tell  him."  She  gently  pushed  the  child 
forward. 

At  the  sound  of  footsteps,  Sunderland  raised 
his  eyes  and  saw  in  the  glow  of  the  camp-fire 
a  beautiful  child,  as  handsome  as  a  little  gypsy 
prince.  The  baby  was  regarding  him  solemn- 
ly with  great  eyes.  Something  about  the  child, 
his  proud  little  head,  his  short,  scornful  upper 
lip,  his  steadfast  gaze,  brought  back  to  the 
startled  man  a  memory  of  another  little  boy. 

290 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

Sunderland  stared  at  him  as  if  hypnotized,  his 
heart  beat  to  suffocation  and  great  beads  of 
perspiration  gathered  on  his  brow.  "Who — 
who — are  you?"  he  stammered.  "What — is — 
your  name?" 

"Name — Jerry,"  replied  the  child,  still 
gravely  regarding  him.  With  a  great  sob  Sun- 
derland caught  him  to  his  breast.  "My  little 
boy!"  he  wept.  "My  little  boy!" 

Lily  hastily  beckoned  to  Gerald,  who  came 
up  white  and  trembling.  "This  is  your  time," 
she  murmured.  "Do  not  wait  a  moment." 
*  In  another  instant  he  stood  before  his  father, 
extending  an  appealing  hand.  Sunderland 
saw  him,  and  releasing  the  child,  sank  back 
upon  the  bench,  staring  as  if  at  a  ghost. 

Lily  now  caught  up  the  child  and  ran  with 
him  to  the  lodge,  crying  out  as  Tyson  and  Mrs. 
Adriance  met  her  with  outstretched  hands: 
"His  mother  first — his  mother  first."  The  next 
moment  the  boy  was  in  Kitty's  arms. 

"Father,"  Gerald  murmured— "father,  for- 
give— — "  He  got  no  further.  For  with  one 

291 


THE  STUFF   OF  DREAMS 

mighty  tug,  Sunderland  wrenched  the  thorn 
from  his  flesh  and  eased  his  pain  forever.  He 
threw  his  arms  about  his  son,  and  for  one 
sacred  moment  the  two  men  wept  together. 

Then  with  his  arm  about  his  son's  shoulder, 
Sunderland  led  him  home.  As  they  went  up 
the  steps  together,  Gerald  saw  through  the 
doorway  the  cheerful  lamplight,  the  blaze  of 
the  open  fire,  the  row  of  kindly,  welcoming 
faces,  and  his  wife  holding  their  child  to  her 
heart. 


THE  END 


292 


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